I’ve always loved writing.  I suppose a lot of that is because I come from a long line of storytellers.  It’s a fun quirk from our family that I never fully appreciated until I got married.  I thought every family sat around, reminiscing and laughing about, “that time when…”  I don’t know that our stories are all that unique compared to the rest of America, but we sure love telling them.  Over.  And over.  And over again.

As far back as I can remember, I was a storyteller.  When I was first learning to put sentences together, I inherited Grandma Connie’s electric typewriter.  I.  LOVED.  THAT.  THING.  It was yellow and made a loud whhhhhhhiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrr when I plugged it in.  I loved the smell the rubber-tipped metal letters had.  I would sit for hours on end at my bedroom desk, typing away.

I lived across the street from a pool for most of my childhood.  (Okay, fine, it was a country club.  Judge away!)  Instead of swimming, I’d sit poolside with my Five-Star notebook and Pilot fine point pens, frantically scribbling my stories about tween unrequited love.  I even submitted a few of my manuscripts to the tween magazines I had subscriptions to.

Anyway, I’ve been thinking about all of this ever since I read Gretchen Rubin ask in The Happiness Project, “What did you do for fun when you were 10 years old?”  She made the case that chances are whatever you did for fun as a 10-year-old would be something that you would enjoy today as an adult.  For me, that would be writing.  These days, my writing usually revolves around faith, parenting, marriage, cultural observations, books, and finding happiness in ordinary living.

Now that we’re out of survival mode with our new beautiful baby girl, I’m getting an itch to get back to writing.  As a mama of 4 littles, I tend to write in spurts.  I’ll find a rhythm for a few weeks or months, and then I’ll hang the blog back on the shelf until life gets a little less crazy.  I started blogging in November 2011, but it’s never been a daily habit.  I think I’ve always thought it was a bit selfish or indulgent for a young mom.  After 6.5 years at this parenting stuff, I’m learning that taking the time for me isn’t selfish; it’s a necessity.

This time, I want to do things differently.  This time, I’m challenging myself to sit down and write for at least 10 minutes a day every single day.  Those ten minutes might not be enough to create a coherent blog post, but it will mean that I’m practicing my craft daily.  Just as I’ve been allowing myself to accept my new identity as a runner for my self-prescribed #yearofme, I’m starting to accept what my identity has always been:  I am a writer.

My goal is to publish 3 blog posts a week by writing at least 10 minutes everyday.  I don’t know what my future as a writer entails.  For now, in this crazy chapter of life with 4 littles, it’s enough for me to embrace that I am, in fact, a writer.  At long last, I am going to allow myself to be a writer for at least 10 minutes every single day.

Questions for you:

What did you like to do when you were ten years old?  What would that look like today?  Are you allowing yourself to do that thing on a regular basis?  Why or why not?