I am a colossal wimp. I’ve never even tried to admit this before, but my lack of courage could fill a coliseum. My fear is the mightiest thing about me. I possess several positive traits and skills. I’m not bad looking. I can write well. I can influence others to do my bidding, and I mostly only use this for good causes (in bed.)
(You’ve tried this e
xercise, right, where you add “in bed” to everything you say? Okay then.) Occasionally, I say what I mean in beautiful or heartfelt ways and sometimes this helps others. Sometimes, they can relate. Most people, however, never know I can write or that they might relate because I rarely put my writing out visibly, let alone onto 10 social media sites linked by Hootsuite.
I sit down at my computer each morning and I write. I write from my heart and body and I tell the story of my healing and unfolding heart. I began as a 9-year-old. I wrote so much that a writing callous the size of a small turnip sprung up on my third finger. If I’d been the type of third grader who flipped people off, my finger might have been admired for sustaining vegetative life.
I didn’t used to be a wimp. Why not be confident? I wrote it, of course I’d share it, because that’s what writers do. Duh.
Oh, to drink some of that duh juice now. Now I weep at my computer, sorry that for some reason I never seem to put any of this juicy (or even pathetic) ((in bed)) writing out there into the world. I make myself miserable by keeping all of it to myself. I convince myself every day that one day I’ll be famous. But all those little actions that add up: Submitting articles to magazines, publishing my own blog, guest blogging…all of it, I ignore.
I just don’t do it.
I’m not lazy.
I’m scared.
I’m very, very afraid that when I put my writing out there that people will see me, and that in some way this means I’ll be killed.
I’m not afraid like that critics will think my writing sucks. Whatever. People think what they think of writing, that’s okay. I like that about people, that they share thoughts and opinions and then veer off all over the crazy cosmos having their own thoughts, feelings, emotions, identities, and that no two are alike.
That’s wonderful. Great. Have at it. Hate my writing. Love it. (Love me). Ooh, la, la. Whatever works. That all sounds kind of fun. And in all likelihood, that’s all that would happen. Some of the people (who would see it…and getting it seen is an art form I’ve been studying for years…but all experts agree that publishing it is essential) would like it and others not so much. They might even throw egg goo. I mean I’ve been egged before, or my house has, and we both survived.
That’s not what I’m scared of, though.
Folks. No. This is what scares me: I put myself out there as a writer, my very flesh and blood pouring out into the page in all my ugly scary human self…and I get killed. Likely tortured first. And not by some crazy woman-hater sociopath… those don’t exist in as great a number as the media and movies make you think they do.
Nope. By an angry mob.
Yes. That’s it. The entire town of Boulder, Colorado proper would lay down their knives and forks and forego that last baked potato and they would make their way to the town center (where I was already screaming for mercy and getting none), to watch as I was stoned, burned, taunted and had every manner of things thrown at me including infants, small children, pots and pans, shit, a football, someone’s weimaraner. Then, all these people get sick of the commotion and just pick up baseball bats and smash me to a bloody pulp. I watch outside my body (having just left it for dead) and think, “See that’s why I kind of just wanted to live out the rest of my days with hikes and tea, and good friends and not actually share any of my writing.”
It makes sense doesn’t it?
Try telling that to my fear that fills coliseums. Okay maybe just one colossal coliseum. She’s not having it. But she will have a hot dog. She likes to be comfortable. She’ll order one and drink a beer with you and watch the sun set gloriously down over the mountains while the Rockies play and she’ll go home sad to still be a closet writer but in every other way so much better off.
She’ll kiss you lightly on the forehead before you sleep and she’ll say,
“Thanks for saving my life again today.”
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