Introduction

I love feeling the sand between my toes, the water splashing against my legs and watching the tide roll in and out. I still remember my first trip to the beach, even though it happened nearly fifty years ago. Our extended family caravanned to a relative's house for a wedding; they lived less than a mile away from the beach. Afterwards, our family made an impromptu stop before returning home. My little brother and I ran around in the sand, splashed around in the water, noticing its brackish flavor. We collected seashells and built a sandcastle. The beach escapade capped off a beautiful, perfect day. I knew then I wanted to live in a beach house. To finance my salt-life endeavor I would become a writer freelancing for Rolling Stone, Vanity Fair, wherever. Furthermore, I planned to write the next great American novel. I had no clue what it would be about, but my book would be a bestseller and required reading on high school summer reading lists. I would be a celebrated and in demand writer.

Fast forward to now: I live three hours inland from that very same beach I first visited all those years ago. I am married to a most wonderful, supportive husband for going on twenty years and we have two beautiful daughters. I toil daily as a bookkeeper for a non profit organization. The work I do is rewarding on occasion, but quite rote and mundane. I believe it was John Lennon who sang that life is what happens while you're making plans. But there was no tragic accident or any other life altering event. There was room in my plan for a family; however, I didn't become the writer I hoped to be. So, what happened? FEAR. There, I said it. I am my own worst enemy. I wasn't very confident in my abilities; I feared becoming a starving writer, which led me to choose a more marketable, safe, yet boring college major: Business Administration. My last two years of college stretched to four years, with me earning lackluster grades trying to convince myself I could do this. A wiser person would have changed majors.

Post graduation, I landed a position in the corporate office of a small southeastern retailer. My job didn't spark a lot of joy, but it definitely paid the bills. My writing aspirations were completely forgotten until a classmate at our ten year high school class reunion asked if I still wrote. I paused, then awkwardly stammered something about not having enough time. It was flattering to know that I was remembered for being a good writer. Still, it was not the impetus for me to begin writing again. Over a decade later, I joined a marathon training team and our trainer encouraged us to blog our experiences. Oddly enough, my blog was among the few most followed by other teammates; one teammate implored me to continue writing. It was what I needed to hear; still I fear being told I'm no good at it.

Also, I used to play piano, but quit because I hated to practice, even though I love music. Recently, I started trying to play again, not because I was any good at it, but I enjoy playing and that's what counts. Life is too short to live in fear and spend it doing things you'd rather not do.

One day, I will be brave enough to write that novel.