Friday, April 30, 2021

Impatiently Writing for the Scare to Lift. (Day 120)

I often wonder if I will be destined to keep writing about the same things--childhood brain tumors, organ donation, grief, the elderly, Jesus, Beverly Hills 90210, Peloton and pickles. Somedays I think I will. Other days I am filled with confidence that there will definitely be new horrors to write through and I guess some more laughs and maybe another 90210 reunion or reboot. 

Writing every single day, in my person memoir blog, comes with this fear that I will repeat myself or bore the few readers that show up or simply fail at producing anything discernible. There are often days when I want to write about 17 unrelated things; other days were I desperate to explore all the dark places again, like a mental patient and days when I feel like I've nothing to say. 

I want you all to know that this is hard work. And as much as I laugh at myself and giggle about my "14" or "19" readers and pretend to be confident, I am not confident. I am often internally eating myself up and wondering: why don't I take time to try to get more readers? If I am good at this, where is the reward? 

I mean I am hardly a new writer or a young chicken. I've been at this writing thing for almost 25 years. And if I am honest, I've probably been dreaming of my byline since I was 5. But, this is the first year I've ever truly dedicated to MY writing and though I write here every single day, it never ever seems like enough. 

I guess I am really scared. And I hate admitting that. I hate scared. I hate nervous. I hate anxious. I hate stress paralyzed. I hate flaws that I cannot laugh at. When it comes to the one thing, besides my family and dear friends and a good Bernie meme, I love most, I am all those things--scared, nervous, anxious, stress paralyzed. 

I don't want to be. I want to be brave enough to pitch an editor. I want to be brave enough to pitch an agent. I want to be brave enough to take the risk and write without knowing if anyone will ever publish me. 

I know I am not there yet. And I am so impatient with myself over this. 

I see other bylines, so I know what's possible. I read works by lesser writers who have absolutely not seen some shit like me. I see non-writers publishing their own books. And I know that I have the writing chops and stories to do it; but I don't know if I have a courage. 

It is worst than writer's block that stops the words--it is something else, a version of imposter syndrome that stops the momentum and the sprint to the finish. Instead, I find myself always looking to see who is closer to overtaking me and in the process, I forget that I am also running the race, too. 

I feel like this is the point in the blog entry when I should walk you to some deep life lesson or silly moment--walk you forward through the paragraphs until you get to the beautifully tied bow of an ending that leaves you feeling complete and fulfilled. 

The thing is, I am not complete or fulfilled. That's the rub--I don't have the bow to tie, yet. 



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