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Sitting at my cluttered desk, full of papers and nonsense, I am thinking about how long I have been telling my story.  My coffee is bitter today, but I’m not exactly positive why.  Is my life a story worth telling?  It is just as cluttered as my desk, truthfully.  My Virgo organizational traits have failed me all week, so I am torturing myself with imperfection.  I want to write.  I want to write well, and capture you.  I want to take you hostage for a suburban adventure to Target with a screaming toddler.  They have fantastic EVERYTHING.

This isn’t something that you just decide, though.  “Hmmm.  I think today I am going to wake up and be an expert.”  That’s not reality.  Growth takes dedication and practice.  It will take time, my most precious commodity, to find a voice.

I need to figure out my formula.  What are the things that I love?  Who are the people starring in my stories?  Why do I want people to read?  It feels pretty narcissistic.  It probably is narcissistic.  I want to build a beautiful life.  I want to inspire others to create and share their beautiful stories.  I want to hoard these memories so I never forget.  And, I want to live, and prove to the world that happiness is an attainable goal.  It is something we should wake up early to greet, and strive to find with our whole heart.

My joy is a curious and fanciful adventure in art and family, and finding balance within the two.  It is not perfect. 

Perfection is for people who’ve forgotten how to have fun.

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