To the outside world, I exude confidence. Perhaps it is because I am able to find the humor in just about any possible situation, so it therefore appears that I am in control and can (perhaps) handle all that is thrown at me. I am outspoken, honest and (perhaps too) open with whatever is happening in my life so the natural assumption is that I am down with it, cool, unfazed, and confident. And, to be fair to myself, sometimes I am. Most of the time I really do believe that “I got this” and that the curveballs and bumps in the road are not enough to throw me off my axis. Except when they are.
That is when I ignore said jolts in the hopes that they will be magically worked out through some sort of divine intervention. You know…the whole “fall in your lap” kind of thing. And, if I am being honest, I have been fortunate in that sometimes that has indeed happened. Except when it hasn’t.
Case in point: I am a pretty good writer. I can tell a story. I can, for example, strike up a conversation with a woman at Uniqlo (she mentioned “the sisterhood”, I was in), talk to her for an hour and then write about it. This usually garners a supportive laugh or other form of appreciation from someone like you. (I haven’t had a chance to write about it but it is a great story including our discussion of body image, foreign travel, divorce, transgender and, wait for it…heroin. All while standing in the middle of the frenzy that is Uniqlo.) I willingly go up against the hysteria of any given day in my life and relay it to you in a way that you respond to. I actually love to do that and it isn’t, frankly, too hard for me. Over the years, folks have told me to do something more with that skill…as in make a living from it somehow. And that, friends, is the precise moment that I become totally, completely and utterly immobilized. Wha?? Make a living at it? You smokin’ dope? Yep…there it is: the abject fear which stops me in my tracks, resulting in my total inability to do a damn thing. Despite my propensity to be riddled with self doubt over the little stuff, I don’t generally think of myself as a fearful person. Except when I do.
Then there are those women who do a little something on the side (with nary a thought of it becoming a big something) only to find themselves sitting across from Matt Lauer on “The Today Show” couch chatting themselves up. Man, does that mess with my head, setting in motion a viscous internal battle between over-confidence and crippling insecurity as to any possibility of enjoying my own such trajectory of success. Of note: most of these gals didn’t necessarily set out to do it, rather it just, well, happened. (See divine intervention above.) Regrettably, I have this (ridiculous, dangerous and often disappointing) desire for all things to happen organically, without contrivance or strategy. And, truthfully, that has happened in my favor. More than once, even. Except when it hasn’t.
I know what I want. To make more money. To have more freedom. To create for people things that they might not be able to, because, while they rock this world with their particular brand of expertise they do not happen to be great writers. (No judgment: I can give you a list as long as my arm of things I suck at…math comes to mind. And science, yeah, science does, too.) I know what I am good at and where I thrive. I am 50, after all, so I have it all figured out. Except when I don’t.
p.s. If you know someone who wants a scribe…you know where to find me.
 It is always the little stuff. Big stuff I take on fiercely. If you don’t believe me, ask my mother. Or my brothers. Or my kids. Or Mary. Or Barry. Or Marcia. Or Janet. Seriously: I had an easier time with cancer than I did with choosing whether or not to let my gray grow in.
 I’m talking to you, Jill Smokler…
 Not really all, but many.