Beginning again

“I should get back into writing on my blog. I need to prove that meeting my wife didn’t kill my blog.” [Really, it didn’t.]

“But I have so many things to write about, that I don’t know where to start.”

“I don’t blather on social media anymore. All those words have to be dammed up, right?”

“Damn right they’re dammed up. Again, I have too many thoughts to get out.”

“But I should write about something, right? Something to break the ice?”

“You tried that almost two years ago and it got you nowhere.”

“Hey, I wrote that one piece in September.”

“You’re proving your own point.”

“Cool. We’re not losing out to Wilson right now.”

“Are you going to engage with what Misty wrote?”

“You mean with …”

I’ve spent a lot of time with my fear. I call it by different names. Sometimes it looks like working on a different project. Sometimes it looks like cleaning up my studio space. Sometimes it looks like sitting on the couch watching tv and crocheting. Sometimes it looks like me spending too much time on social media. But there’s always an oozing puddle of fear languishing nearby waiting for me to fall in if I’m not paying enough attention to skirt it appropriately and do the scary task at hand.

My fear is always willing to tell me specifically that no one cares about what I have to say. That I will die in art obscurity because what I make is banal or laughable or unintelligible or all of those things. My fear is also pretty invested in moving the goal posts of whatever success I do gain so that I will get discouraged and quit.

“Yeah, go wrestle with that.”

“Okay, dude, but we’re about to go AOS.”

“A-O-What now?”

“Don’t be coy. You know that I fly the International Space Station now.”

“But they don’t know.”

“They do now. Oh, and it’s the only job that I’ve ever had that doesn’t have me with near-crippling imposter syndrome.”

“Oh, do you want to unpack that?”

“YOU ARE NOT MY THERAPIST, YOU ASSHOLE.”