She Wears Her Fear On Her Sleeve

Short and sweet. Get inspired. 


My fear is that everything I write will suck. Every word will be tragically and obviously awful. And the more I try, the more I write, the equally mediocre it will be. And I hear all the voices. I see all the judgments. That this passion, this dream, this so called talent I’ve held buried underneath was just an over inflated sense of greatness. Ego.

And I will have to sit in my embarrassment and admit that this day I’ve been holding out for, my big break, is just a big joke- because I was never any good. I was never bound for this life. To be a writer.

It will be awful. I will be awful. And I will have put it on display for everyone to see.

What do I do with all that fear? The years and decades of pressure I’ve allowed to build up inside like a trash compactor, shoving my desire and creativity down into a tiny mass – what do I do with all that?

Toss it aside. Throw caution to the wind. “Be brave!” They cheer from the sidelines, as if they aren’t all anxiously awaiting my dramatic crash and burn because, honestly, success is boring to watch if you aren’t the recipient.

Ah, and so I make tea. I read a new book. I rant and whine on social media. I binge watch the latest season of, well, so many shows. I nap and I eat and I nap one more time – for good measure. Anything, ANYTHING, to avoid actually writing.

I am horrible at follow through. I don’t have really good self-discipline. I am the queen of setting lofty goals in a moment of emotional elation and then immediately sweeping them under the rug at the first light of dawn. My brain is very quick to reel in my heart and it is a constant battle inside.

I have started so many stories and books and creative projects. They sit, unfinished, uninspired. Eventually they get tossed away in a cleaning frenzy for fear that anyone see what a mess I’ve made.

Truth is, I don’t know where to go from here. I don’t even know how to end this article – if that’s what this is. Just write, they say. And so I do. I do that. I write. Words and streams of consciousness that even I can barely understand and so I don’t expect much of anyone to care or read or to be touched or inspired on any level.

(Though secretly I hope they are. And I hope that their great uncle’s best friend’s brother is an editor who owes them a huge favor and they cash it in on my behalf because I’m just that fucking great.)

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