I am terrified. I am petrified. I am so afraid of what you might think and what you might say that I am paralyzed.
I am scared that I am not what I say that I am and that you will find out. I lay awake at night thinking you’ll find me out, discover that I am a fraud.
I am afraid that when I write and you read it, you’ll see that I’m not very good at this after all; you’ll see that I’m not an artist.
And that fear is what freezes my fingers. It keeps me from putting pen to paper or fingers to keys. I am too scared to even write for fear that everyone will know that I’ve been faking it all along.
I told Natalie this two nights ago at her kitchen table hugging my glass of wine to my chest tightly. We’d been talking about her art, how she’d found her way back to what she really loves and how she wants to do that no matter what anyone else thinks.
“You have to read this book; take my copy. Seriously, I won’t let you not take it,” she said.
So last night, I sat on the floor of my living room eating take-out sushi from the celephane box and read the first chapter. Everything that I’ve been thinking and feeling was housed within the edges of those first few pages. Everything that was keeping me from writing was all right there. So I cried. I put down the book, slept, started my day all over again and now here I am, writing.
I won’t tell you what the book said. If you want to know, you’ll need to go read it yourself. But I’m writing again. That’s all it took, but it was everything I needed.