It came today.

After months of waiting, my first published article in a magazine arrived at my doorstop in a big manila envelope.

I had butterflies in my stomach and my toes were twitching. All I wanted to do was open it and look and it and feel proud but I was too scared, so I just held the package for a few moments first.

While I held it I started to criticise it. “What if it’s stupid?” “What if they picked an ugly picture of me?” “What if it’s changed completely?” “What if the magazine is lame?” “What if what if what if?” The more negative feelings I started to have, the more afraid I became of opening it.

Then I realised I didn’t write it to become afraid of it, so I tore that envelope open.

I turned to the first page and under “Columns” was me. Under “Writers” was me. And on the second page, the first column, was me. There was me on one whole page.

And underneath my (nice) picture, it said, “Writer Alex” It didn’t say, “wanna be writer.” It didn’t say, “part time writer.” It didn’t say “not very good writer,” but it said, “Writer.” Plain and simple.

Looking at my words and my picture in this magazine was one of the strangest, yet most exciting experiences I’ve ever had. The words that I had thought of and the message that I was trying to say, got out there. Not only that, it had really affected people as well.

Long before I got the magazine, other subscribers had. And they wrote me to tell me how much they appreciated what I said. My words meant something to them. My words got a few people off their arse. My words did more than just sit on the page – they came alive.

This experience, the first publishing experience, has been so completely amazing.

It didn’t make me rich, it didn’t give me the Nobel Prize, and it didn’t make me famous. All it did was make me feel proud. And you know, that’s really all that matters.

I have no idea what makes this day different from any other, except that today I am full of energy, flowing thoughts and ready to write.

The past week has been slow writing wise and I could come up with a million and one reasons as to why. The man that has been power blasting our Condo walls outside has been loud making it really impossible to concentrate. I’ve had more errands to run than I can count. I finished up my little job. I had art class and had to study and prepare for presentations. I was sick. And on and on and on.

But I don’t think any of that is a really valid reason to not write or put the effort in, they were just excuses.

I had thoughts in my head I wanted to put down on paper – in fact I had about a million. The problem was I couldn’t get past a certain stage when writing. I couldn’t get it onto paper. I was so blocked, just pure, simple blocked. I couldn’t even read because I couldn’t concentrate long enough on some one else’s words because all I wanted to do was write my own.

Normally, when this would happen, this blocking, I’d beat myself up over it.

“You’re being lazy!” I’d cry. “If you were a real, disciplined writer, you could do it.” or “You need to get your act together, quit waiting for the perfect words, just write! Write now!”

I’d get frustrated, call myself names, feel stupid, lazy, and nothing like a writer. But then I realised that I wasn’t writing because I was stupid or lazy but because I merely had a block, and I had to work through it somehow.

Once I stopped treating myself like crap for not writing, I started to slowly release the block. I reckoned it kind of to having a pinched nerve, and you have to slowly massage the area over and over to release the nerve and let all the blood flow properly again.

I’ve been working on my block for the past few days. What I needed was one whole day of silence (or at least 3 hours), of letting the dishes stay in the sink, of playing some music that I needed to hear and dancing to it. Of walking out under the trees and sun. Of watching the water. Of not reading others work. Of just feeling like I’m OK and on the right path and it will all come together when it comes together.

And by doing that, I was able to just get back to writing today with so much energy and freedom. I was excited to have my fingers typing at 90 words per minute again and hearing the beautiful rhythm of my fingers touch the keys.

Which is good, because I have a rewrite to do for my next article. And since this is my first rewrite, and first time working with an editor, I need all the energy I can muster.