False starts = new stuff?

I’ve been going through a lot of reorganizing in my life lately.  You might not know it, because it seems as though I’m plugging along as usual…working away, trying to keep up with the kids and my husband, feeling guilty about how messy my apartment is, and maybe doing some writing here and there.

I’d love to begin this paragraph with a big BUT…and follow up with something amazing!  All of a sudden, I’m the queen of organization and my kids’ lives run seamlessly alongside my working hours, and I’ve made some amazing dinner every night of the week, and I’m writing so much that I can barely hold the words back.

In real life, though, I’ve been barely able to hold everything together—the jobs I’ve been juggling, Kade’s middle school search, regular kid nightly homework, throwing something together for dinner.  This is probably not news to those who know me best.

The other night, though, instead of feeling paralyzed by how behind I am on everything, I decided to go through the stories I already have sitting around.  I looked through pieces that are maybe finished and the scraps of stories I’ve written.  The best part? Seeing how much I’ve written through the years—I have almost 50 stories—and also that I liked almost everything I’d written.

Even the embarrassing stuff!  I liked seeing how my stories have grown, how I could trace what I’d tried to do, how I might be able to fit some of these pieces into the big story I’m working on now.  I’ve now divided my stack by narrator, and I’m looking forward to reading what everyone has to say to me, and going from there.

It seems so simple now, and I keep wondering why I didn’t even think to do this before.  Why was I so determined to keep going forward without looking back?  There’s a history lesson in there somewhere…

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