My dog is a 100 pound Great Pyrenees with a booming bark that will rattle your bones. But she's afraid of wood floors. It's so bizarre. If she's overcome with excitement, like with the prospect of going for a R-I-D-E (I'm pretty sure she can hear me writing this, so I have to spell it), she trots just fine to the front door, across two full rooms of wood floors, navigating around furniture, and whatever else we've left lying around that day. But the moment she hesitates or second guesses herself, she gets clumsy, and then we start back at square one.
One night she was trying to cross the expanse of the wood floor of the dining room to get to the sweet relief of the carpeted den, and she ran into me. And then her water bowl. And everything went everywhere. I cleaned it all up, comforted her, and continued on with my work. Two minutes later, she ran into her water bowl again. I cleaned it all up again, comforted her again, and continued on with my work. But after that she didn't grace the wood floors with her presence without a leash guiding her for months. It's as if she says, "I can't do this," and thus convinces herself. She's a self-fulfilling prophecy.
I am too. I can't do this. I'll never be good enough. I'm not a good writer. No one wants to hear what I have to say. I suck.
I say these lies to myself over and over again and sometimes to my husband while I sob. And then I psych myself out. I don't write. I don't share my writing. I throw it away. So then I have no truth to battle the lies echoing in my head.
Here's the truth I need-- when is good enough? My dog doesn't have to live on the wood floor; she just has to survive in a house that has them. I don't have to be the best. I just have to do and be proud of what I've done.
So I'm going to write. I'm going to do it here regularly. And maybe someday I'll turn it all into a book. I'll publish it myself if I have to. Maybe my sister will be the only person who reads it. Who cares.
Because that's good.
And that's enough.