What is the lifejacket?

Today I tried to count the number of excuses I've given myself for NOT writing every day. I counted the generic reasons like "I don't have time" or "I have a block right now and can't think of anything good to write" or "It's Tuesday. I do my best writing on Thursdays." I also counted the more outlandish versions of my self-imposed writer's block, including "I don't have a laptop and I hate to sit at the computer after a long day at work," which of course evolved once my family pooled together their Christmas money to buy me the joint gift of a laptop into: "I can't use this laptop because it's not a Mac, so I can't go on the internet without getting a virus." Because somehow my ability to write consistently is linked to my ability to access the internet virus-free and my distrust of the various spyware available. With the arrival of my rather high maintenance fourth child, the excuse evolved further into: "I can't type while nursing a baby."

And as I sit here, typing on my Macbook Air with one hand because my left hand is supporting my nursing baby, who is attached once again like an adorable and relentless suckerfish, I can finally admit the truth: I wasn't writing because I harbor a secret need for constant affirmation about what I write. Because I've never felt confident enough to write and just know it's good. Or not good. And to be okay with it. I seem to need an audience and fans to rave about how I should be writing professionally. I won't dictate myself ("it's delude yourself, dummy. That's what I said!" -- sorry…random movie quote…Name that movie!) into thinking that negative inner voice has hushed, but damn it, I'm going to try to ignore it. 

I took two steps recently that helped initiate that small change. First, I read Stephen King's On Writing. While I will stoop to quoting my favorite films, I won't try to restate Mr. King's brilliance. In essence, his best point was that those who say they want to write, but don't, really can't claim to want to be a writer. In other words, he called me the fraud that I have been. 

Second, I joined Twitter. I know -- it's an odd leap from Twitter to "I want to be a writer," but I've wanted that since they first asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up -- choosing to follow only writers and writing organizations on Twitter merely helped me refocus that desire. 

Also, I did write somewhat consistently when recovering from major facial surgery (see: samanthahowardwriteschronicles.blogspot.com). But it's much easier to find the motivation to write when your jaw is wired shut. And I set up the focus of that blog to be limited to my recovery experience. I need a forum through which I can explore everyday experiences to keep me writing when my other writing projects have stalled. So this is my blog -- my tool to force myself to avoid the "fraudism" described by Mr. King, and my escape from the identity loss of motherhood-meets-career-meets-housework-meets-where-did-my-youth-go. This is my Suburban Lifejacket.