This is how neurotic I am.
I have carried a special writer's notebook around in my purse for nearly two years.
A lot of writers do this.
However, my special journal has been sealed in it's original plastic wrap rendering it useless whenever I felt the need to jot something down. So while I dug through my purse for crinkled paper, old receipts, bank deposit slips, whatever upon which to write, I'd scrape my knuckles across my leather bound writer's notebook and feel guilty for not using it and terrified to use it.
The fact that this writing implement was a gift seemed to add to my fear of using it incorrectly. How could I scribble stupid ideas in a sweet, professional writer tool -- what if someone read (or attempted) to read my scratchings and decided I wasn't worthy of something only a real writer uses? What if I read what I'd written on a low and melancholy day and came to that same conclusion?
As we drove to the lake last week I birthed an idea so I dug through my purse for scraps.
It hit me. Maybe I'd take myself a little more seriously if I'd use my tools.
I ripped the plastic off. Opened the book and breathed in the scent of leather. I almost felt like a real writer. With a shaking hand I wrote my idea. Then another, and a third.
Not that tough. The world didn't stop spinning. A pig didn't fly overhead. Music didn't swell in the background.
Next, I'm going to begin writing in the prayer journal that sits waiting for me to fill it and be blessed by the words that are fed to my heart. Who knows what I'll do next, maybe I'll buy new dishtowels...and use them!
Anyone else struggle with this craziness? Please don't tell me I'm alone....