I have ladybugs all over my writing room and my bedroom. It started with just one or two. I’m easily up to a dozen or more now.

Someone told me a long time ago that ladybugs brought luck on their wings. Whether or not the superstition holds, there is something comforting about their presence. They are bright and beautiful, a reminder of spring-to-come on a day that dawned at 24 degrees, still firmly in the clutches of winter.

I have to keep myself from doing too much online reading about the chances of becoming a traditionally published writer. It’s so easy to get discouraged when people tell you it’s all luck and give you lottery-like odds.

Proceed as if it were impossible to fail… I remember reading that advice and thinking it strange. How can you have that kind of confidence without sounding like an utter loon?

I think it takes that kind of courage to be an artist, though, to proceed with your artform without allowing doubt to creep in and crush you. Like the ladybug, I have silk wings folded up under a hard shell. I am taking shelter, working on my dream, until it is time to emerge and take flight.

If ladybugs are lucky, I’ll take it and thank you. But I believe that this ladybug of a writer can make her own luck, too.


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