Recently, I had a really, Really Good Idea.
At this point in my life, I have had to pare down my really, Really Good Ideas because having them, like, ALL the time is just so exhausting. I needed to step down and give other people around me a chance to be brilliant once in a while. It’s my civic duty.
So, I aim for one Really Good Idea a week.
Anyhow: My idea was to start a Writers’ Group! Yes! A Writers’ Group, with people in it! And we write and stuff! It will be super cool! (Circa 1998, students… you know I’m breaking my ! here, dontcha? I’m trying to be ironic. Course, if you have to point out the irony, then, maybe, it’s not irony. Whatever.)
The Writers’ Group was my Really Good Idea!
1. People actually CAME. This filled me with awe.
2. Also this: I was “in charge” and still, people asked to come BACK!
3. And finally: I gave out homework and they DID it. I KNOW.
So… here’s the assignment.
I had them write down a color. And then a place. And then, they selected a word from my Word Jar… and then… they wrote. And, since I realized I had left the group without my own three words, this morning I decided to grab two words from my handy dandy Jar and added my own color.
And oh… how God has a sense of humor on this one.
I am trying on my red shoes. They are a deep red, shiny, and pointy, and they make me stand up straight when I put them on. I have lipstick that is the same color, the color of a heavy velvet curtain at a theater, or of a pomegranate.
I decide to swipe on the lipstick too. It’s a mistake. Now, I am staring at my reflection in our hall mirror with the shoes, the bright slash of lipstick, and a new dress. My hair is all tangled in a braid that is two days old and a six-year-old is hiding behind the folds of the dress, pretending it is his curtain. He makes his debut with a foam sword and a shout of “Come and get me, Bucko!” and swashbuckles away, but his swordplay has me all out of balance.
It is also possible I don’t wear heels much anymore, so even standing still seems to be a challenge. I sigh and push the braid back. At this point, how will walking go?
I am going to fail.
I take a breath and contemplate the lipstick. It’s too much. And then stare down at the shoes in all their pointy audacity.
“Ok, it’s either you or the lipstick, ” I mutter. “One of you has to go. I look like I’m trying to be Taylor Swift.”
Nobody should try to look like Taylor Swift unless they are Taylor Swift. ESPECIALLY if that nobody is over, erm, forty years old.
At the end of this week, I am flying far away, to San Francisco, to a Really Big Event for The Book.
And all I keep thinking is:
I am going to fail. Somehow, I’ll forget how to get on a plane or how to drive to the airport or how to talk to people. Add the shoes with their pointyness to all of this and it’s just a recipe for disaster. People do not wear red shoes unless they’re in control of the red shoes. I don’t think I can do this.
I mean… WHO do I think I am?
Well. It seems… I am an author.
And I have something to give. And God asked me to give it.
So, I’m going. And I might fail. I might spill coffee on my dress or forget how to use the flight app on my phone or forget to tip the taxi guy…
But God won’t fail. Nor will He fail me.
He got me this far. He can get me to San Francisco.
Even in high heels. He can split oceans in two, after all. He can help me walk in tippy shoes.