Why am I so afraid?
Is it the burning of uncertainty,
the, “what do I do if I don’t survive?”
Well, if I don’t survive that means I’m obviously
dead,
so what does it matter anyway?
If my writing were a woman
I’d be addicted to her.
Who’s kidding who-
I am addicted.
They say addiction is just fear.
It’s a fear that if I don’t succeed,
or get this many fans
or that much money,
then I’ve failed,
I’m not good enough
and I may as well be
dead.
Yep, I’m dead.
That’s what I’m afraid of:
debt.
Not having the right size vocabulary,
not being as good a writer as Stephen King,
of no one giving a shit about my story,
of quitting and giving up too easily,
of not finishing projects and seeing them through
to the end,
of people seeing my writing
reading my writing
deciding it’s not good enough
that I’m not good enough
and so I might as well die.
I’m afraid of the “not enoughs”,
that the “what-ifs”
will come to life and eat my face off until all that’s left
is this exposed, no brain that thought she could write
the next great American novel.
I’m afraid of being seen, of exposure and nakedness and then
Of being proven
Wrong.
What if I’m wrong?
Why can’t I see my own
Brilliance?
Maybe I’m sabotaging myself and my writing by exposing it too soon,
the way I was exposed too soon and when I wasn’t ready, and by
the wrong person.
Am I making a mistake?
Where is the self-trust and confidence I had when all this
began?
Today I worried about not having a strong enough vocabulary-
like how do I go about learning more words so I don’t seem like
a 4th grade level idiot trying to write a socially impactful novel?
The confidence and trust are there, just lying beneath the dust of
the fear.
I’ve also been looking for all kinds of ways to make my writing
more intelligent, pretentious, like my story knows it all and will
poo poo on your story.
Insecurity to the nth degree.
Damn ego-that’s not why I wanted to be a writer.
I wanted to be a writer because I LOVED writing
imaginary stories,
Making up characters and then
helping them decide their fate.
And the game has never lost its fun or
magic.
It’s only when the fear monster comes out from under the bed
and pushes my confidence, faith and self-trust in the closet and
slams the door.
I fear that my story has too many character perspectives,
that the plot is too weak
and that it’ll never be good enough.
But good enough for whom?
If it’s good enough for me, is that enough?
I’m totally capable and creative and intelligent enough
clearly dedicated and willing enough-
and maybe even foolish enough-
to do what I’m doing.
Fuckers.
I became a writer so I could write the books I wanted to read.
I love my story.
It ‘s the decision to get paid for my writing,
the pressure to make it happen overnight
because I’m in debt and I need money
and I’m not going back to some damn
40 hour a week desk job
so I can
Die.
Either way, I’m going to
Die.