One night last week around midnight, while I was hopped up on jelly beans and Taco Bell, it hit me. To really do this right. To actually write well, you have to immerse yourself in your story. You need to believe in it, have confidence in your ability and follow through. In other words, you have to be committed.
No, not like that, though there are some days when I believe they're coming to take me away - ha ha, they're coming to take me away. Case in point - an educated almost forty year old woman was gorging herself into a stupor at midnight with high fructose and artery clogging burritos. What the hell was that all about?
But I digress.
I always knew you had to do those things to write well. But it hit me (in the midst of my Jelly Belly induced delirium) with such certainty and clarity. I'd never experienced that knowledge with such depth and surety before. And I don't know what to do about it.
I've been held up this past year in my writing. I have several theories/excuses. But the fear of commitment hadn't been one of them until last week. And now I don't know what to do about it. I don't know if I'm able to commit to being an author. Not with the depth it really takes. And it isn't because of my limited time. It isn't because I don't think it's a worthy thing to commit to.
It's fear. Plain and simple. It's the what ifs. It's the nay saying bastard voices in my head. And the only one to blame is . . . me.
And I'm tempted. Oh, am I tempted. To stop before I start. To choose to fail under my own terms. My own power. Consciously. By not trying in the first place. To close up shop and shake my head in embarrassment at myself for that crazy time I spent thinking I could actually become an author.
So here I sit, without a jelly bean in sight. Tempted. To chuck it all.
And I'm not sure how I feel about that.
Power Washing the Boys
1 day ago