The Fear quietly follows me like a shadow, never leaving and like the proverbial Boogie Man under the bed, pulls me under the surface of my own insecurity, suffocating me with imaginary whispers of “I told you so”.
Sometimes at night, when I am trying to go to sleep, this Fear creeps into my thoughts and prevents me from even closing my eyes. I stare upwards to the ceiling and can feel it choking me as my thoughts stomp wildly inside my head.
“I didn’t write today…I should be writing something right now…I should get up….I write best at night, but I’m tired. Tomorrow will be better…I’ll never finish any of my projects…I will die before I actually become serious about my writing…I have already wasted so much time…”
I despair over the wasted days, weeks, years and then fervently promise and plan to start the next day, so that the Fear will go back to its corner. But, the next day I don’t write and the Fear charges me again, pushing me back further under, into surrender to its grip.
I have plenty of excuses, but none of them are valid. They are only lies that I tell myself to quell the Fear.
“I have no time, I work full time. I’m too stressed…I just want to come home and relax, not write. My recorded shows are filling my queue, I need to watch them. Next week looks better.”
The truth stands accusingly before me.
I have time to write. I have a place to write. I have talent. I have passion.
What the heck is holding me back?
The Fear may actually be that I won’t write well enough, that I won’t be able come up with the pieces to fill the frame of my story and finish it. Maybe the Fear is also that no one wants to read what I have to say.
I must stand up face to face with the Fear and write anyway. I must write because it is who I am. A writer.