Writer’s Shame

6:58 a.m.

It happened again.

It’s Sunday. And despite my very best efforts to sleep in, I’m wide awake at 5:45 a.m. and ready to eat breakfast. Pronto.

Then, I hear it. The voice.

“Kaaaaate, you should wriiiiiiiite.”

Because as a writer, they say you should write every day. (Who is “they” anyway?)

I roll over. I don’t wanna write every day. Sometimes I just want to watch Bravo.

Then it creeps in.

Writer’s Shame. It’s like Catholic Guilt for creatives. And I have expertise in both.

Writer’s Shame happens when you realize it’s been almost a year since your last blog post.

One year. Four seasons. Nothin’ but crickets.

I decide not to think about this. I’m going back to sleep. Because what would I even say?

Books. There are three on my nightstand I’m slogging through. The slogging part might stem from my, um, interesting reading habits.

As in, I skip around.

I like to start in the middle of a book. Then go back and read the beginning.

I also skip long paragraphs with descriptions. I don’t care about the color of the leaves. Just get to the good part already.

It’s hard to get through a book when nothing makes sense. It’s even harder to blog about it.

Scratch the book report.

Oh! This week, a twenty-something had the winning bajillion-dollar Powerball ticket.

I could write about the time I thought I won the lottery.


And, no, I didn’t look to see if I had the winning numbers. I was just convinced I won.

If you could see my husband when I tell this story, you’d see a defeated man oozing a non-verbal message that goes something like:

Now do you see what it’s like to be me? My wife doesn’t even look at the Powerball numbers and she’s sure she won. Because that’s normal.

In my defense, my imagination has always been one of my strong suits.

Let me explain.

It was one of those Powerball mania times and someone in our state – our state! –  won the bajillion-dollar prize. How could it not be me?

Plus, when I drove by the gas station where I bought the (winning) ticket, there was a TV crew. Clearly they were interviewing the attendant who sold (me) the winning ticket. What else could they do a story on at the gas station? The rising price of gas?

I immediately started planning how to tell my husband about our good fortune.

First, I’d drive to his office because he’d never believe me if I told him on the phone. Plus, if someone was listening to our conversation – I’m looking at you, Russia – they could try to take my (winning) ticket.

Wait, before driving there, I needed to protect the ticket. I’d put it in a Ziploc so it couldn’t get wet and wash away our lottery dreams.

Then, I’d put the ticket in the freezer. That’s where the cops always find the money on TV, right? The ticket would definitely be safe there.

I had it all worked out. It was the perfect plan. Until I checked the winning numbers.

I maaaaayyy have had one winning number. But I really can’t be sure. It was too hard to tell through my tears.

Not enough to write about on that one, either.

Maybe I could write about my (really) irrational fear.

That I’ll be convicted of a crime I didn’t commit and sentenced to solitary confinement. I must have watched a lot of Hill Street Blues growing up.

Then everyone will know my real hair color. Because I don’t think they let you get your roots done in prison.

That’s all I’ll say about that because I’m an off-the-charts extrovert and the thought of me and my thoughts alone for decades makes me break out in hives.

There. The first post of 2018 is done.

And like magic, the weight of my Writer’s Shame is gone. Until next Sunday.

7:47 a.m.