I don't consider myself fearless. I haven't survived abuse or a dysfunctional family. Nor have I survived any up-close-and-personal wars, personal
tragedies, natural disasters. In fact, when I look over my life, it has been pretty uneventful as far as large events are concerned.
I have been told my work habits are a bit on the risky end--in that I am willing to make a mistake and apologize later, speak up when maybe it isn't considered proper, and because of those calculated risks it has paid off in my career. But that is fearless? Never. It is just a job.
In the personal life it's been a stable easy-going kind of thing (well on most days). Sure we've bought and sold cars, homes, belongings, and even gone on vacation when the bank account was screaming from its almost empty state. I've braved birthing and parenting a child. And as scary and uncertain that is--unknowns and all--when I look back on it, is it really fearless? I mean women have done the birthing thing for years, right?
But there is a part of my life that still has me shaking in my boots. Again, it wouldn't seem a big deal or even fearless to anyone but me--but it is, something that make my stomach turn.
It is my fiction writing. The fiction writing that I am now sharing with others, including my agent, and some editors, and well people "in the industry" and well someday maybe even ready by you!
Is this a big deal to you? Hell no, but to me it's huge. Is it fearless? I most definitely think so. Let me explain.
It was a small dream I had way back when I drowned my summer in stacks of Nancy Drew hardcover books my mother had purchased from local garage sales. I loved those books. I read each one carefully and passionately. I buried my fears, low self-confidence, and imagination each and every summer night in another mystery only to be solved by Nancy a few nights later when I completed the book. And then I grew into the
Babysitters club series. And then anything I could find in the school library or local (tiny) bookstore. I loved books. I still do (you should see my closet and under my bed).
But that book lover who was always reading was only part of the dream I told the world about.
I also loved writing. Essay tests made my school day. School papers made me grin. And well I had piles of notebooks hidden in desk
drawers, cardboard boxes. In fact, if you searched my room before the college scouring, every nook and
cranny in that room was filled with journals, poetry and love sick pop songs.
For some reason--even then--without a breath from another soul, I felt the need to hide what I
really wanted to do. And that was (you guessed it) to write a book. A novel. About a girl. A lot like me. And a lot like every other girl I knew. I dreamed of telling her story.
The idea of writing a novel about made up people that interacted, changed their life, and then returned to the pages, well... scared me to death. Why? Well, I didn't want anyone to laugh at the audacity that a 13 year old girl would want to write a book. And I didn't want anyone to read between the lines and get any ideas. I mean, hell, this girl I'd write about, I am sure they would think she was me. Right? (When I was 13, she might have been a lot more like me than any characters I write today). And really, I was just scared to put myself out there. To take a chance that I might write something, that well, people laughed at.
I'd like to tell you that I outgrew that stupid fear early on. But,
unfortunately I can't. It followed me through ever personal essay I turned in during high school. It wasn't all bad. There was the time I shared a book of
poetry with a Senior in high school (I was a junior). started simply enough, she read one poem I turned in for class and liked it. But that was the only good part. The big clueless dork in my 13-year-old self took over. Her compliment had me convinced a full collection of poetry was in short order. A collection of my
dreck made especially for her, you know, so she could read and laugh at in her spare time. So I spent 3 nights creating a book for her. One that had my entire poetry collection (roughly 35 pages). With custom drawings and binding, and well, a hard cover. Thinking back, I am sure my "gift" only made her think I fit in
less than what I had the day before. Because after that day, the one I stalked her in the restroom to present the book, was the last time I could look her in the eye without flinching. Hell, I'd just shared my entire heart and soul with her on paper. In the Girls' bathroom in my high school!
College didn't help either. Those feelings of insecurity not only continued--they got worse. I had a creative writing professor bash my newspaper article about him (refusing to let it be published). I had writing instructors trash (and burn) my well thought out theme papers. And I even had one instructor tell me that I couldn't write worth a damn and I should reconsider my major (technical writing).
To which I didn't. Either out of pure stupidity or something along the lines of pure torture. I became a technical writer. One who would have to write--and likely write well--to earn a paycheck. And not only that, I'd be FORCED to share my writing with others (managers, co-workers, the world) in order to survive.
If I am honest, I'm still scared of the reaction to my writing--technical writing, personal writing, blog writing, Christmas cards-- doesn't matter, I'm shitting my pants that you'll think I am a complete idiot for putting a pen to paper. Really. And I've lived like this my entire life--even though I continue to torture myself and write. And now, share my deepest darkest secret. My fiction writing (my books) with someone besides the one that talks inside my head.
Somewhere deep in my unconscious-- the one that normally squashes the parts of the dream I have left--I decided enough was enough. Particularly after my son was born I took a stand, stood firm, and figured I had nothing to lose to finally jump out of the
writerly type closet. Now I just write. Even for publication.
I thought it might finally cure my fear of the public reading my writing. I mean, if I published a novel, then someone would have to read it right? That same someone might even come to some sort of conclusion about me as a writer, and maybe even as a person. And you know what that means? I'd have stuck the middle finger to fear and won. Or at least one would think.
I can't say that what I have done so far--written a novel (or three), submitted to agents, started a blog, shared a short story with the world, found an agent, and submitted to editors for publication--has made me any less fearless than that 13-year-old-girl. In fact, it might be worse now. There is bigger prestige and image to lose. But I did figure something out--fear was eating me alive. All for a dream I'd harbored for years.
So, I still attempt locking the fear somewhere in a
corner of my brain and write on. Ignore it's
incessant knocking and chirping for attention. Does it work? God knows. But for now, I'm writing as fearless as I can in search of shedding that insecurity (or at least lessening it). And that is a promise For the greater good. For bad. For my sanity. For my son. Husband. Cats. I don't know. But it is one of the best decisions I made for my happiness.
At least now I'm not hiding notebooks under my bed and in the far corners of the attic anymore. Now it's just gigabytes of 1s and 0s in my computer.
* This post is brought to you by MotherTalks' Fearless Friday in correlation with the release of Arianna Huffington's book Becoming Fearless. Arianna's book discusses a bunch of things, not the least of which is today's topic--overcoming the anxieties and fears that can stand in the way of our (as in women's) happiness. So check out Arianna's book at Amazon here.
The kind and lovely Miriam Peskowitz invited me to join in this bloggy fun -- which was as much a surprise to me as it is to you--and I knew I had to participate. Particularly since it was so near and dear to my heart (and supports other writers). So this is my response. As late as it is this Friday.Labels: Fearless Friday, life, MotherTalk, writing