Saturday, November 15, 2014



The fear of writing has paralyzed me. In my heart, in my mind, I know this is what I am supposed to do. Countless books have already been started, just sitting inside my computer, waiting for me to come back. Many more are just ideas scribbled into various journals or jotted down on a notepad.

I have looked forward to this day all week. I knew I had the entire day with nothing more to do than write. Instead, I slept in, watched a movie (or three), paid bills, colored my hair (so much better now), checked e-mail and Facebook and Pinterest, picked up a tire, made hot apple cider, and washed dishes. It is now early evening and rather than sitting down to work on one of my books, I am writing on my blog. At least it is writing.

What is it that has me so fearful? Failure? Success? Truth? As Ernest Hemingway wrote, "There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." Maybe that is what I am afraid of. Even though I am very open in my writing here, what I want to write will be so personal. The reader will see who I really am. I will see who I really am. Maybe that is what scares me so much. Maybe I will find out I am not as strong as I appear. Maybe I will find out I am not the good person I think I am. Maybe I will see more clearly how all the mistakes I made have led me to where I am now. Maybe...just maybe, that is a good thing.

I love journeys and exploring the unknown. Exploring my own life certainly shouldn't be a trip into the unknown. It's MY life. I was there. Will I have the courage to be completely honest about it all? Will I be able to show the side of me I never wanted anyone to see? Will I be able to face myself and all the mistakes I have made? Maybe that is what scares me. Everyone makes mistakes, that is a given. Hopefully we learn from them. Have I learned from mine? What more do I need to learn?

It has to be done. The writing. I love art, but to me, it is just for fun. I enjoy it, but it is not the creative outlet in which I express myself. This is.

I used to question my desire to write. I would read about other writers who always knew they wanted to be a writer. They would talk about writing from an early age. I didn't do that. Or did I? I later realized that I was always creating stories in my head. Very detailed, drawn out stories that I would think about for days and nights on end. Lying in my bed at night I would pick up from where I left off. I don't know why I didn't write them down. Maybe fear of having someone read them.

This is what I am supposed to do. I know it. I feel it. Now I just have to do it.

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