Fear

Once again, I managed to fill my entire weekend (three days this time) with activities other than writing, including updating this blog. This is the story of my writing life: I know I need to put the time and effort into it, but I always manage to find an excuse not to.

I think this comes out of fear. I am afraid to write because I am afraid of the aftermath. How will other receive it? Will they even care enough to read it? When my friends tell me what I write is good, my first instinct is to wonder if they’re just saying that because they don’t want to hurt my feelings.

Since 2002, I’ve had “day jobs” where I am actually paid for my writing. I spent more than four years in journalism and now I write for a state agency. To get these jobs, I had to submit writing samples to strangers who judged me based on my writing.  They chose to hire me based on my ability to put words and sentences together in a way that not only used grammar and punctuation correctly, but also flowed in a way that made them pleasant and interesting to read.

One might think that alone would build my confidence. Unfortunately, at least in the journalism world, I saw far too many people hired at the newspapers where I worked whose writing was extremely subpar. Of course, many of my former coworkers (and any who might be reading this blog) were very good writers. But there were enough people working there who were not that it made me doubt myself. Sure, the editors and publishers judged me worthy, but they also judged others worthy who were not.

Growing up, I wanted to be an astronaut, lawyer, actress, dancer, veterinarian … On and on. But the one thing I always wanted to be, in addition to any of the others mentioned, was a writer. A novelist, to be exact. I wanted to write novels and have people read and love them and be able to make enough money writing them that I didn’t have to do anything else. And in that dream lies my terror.

What if I write a novel and I think it’s the best piece of fiction to ever grace paper and I can’t find an agent willing to even read it? What if I can’t get it published?

Now, I know this is silly and irrational. In fact, I know that there is a very good chance my first, second, third – even ninth! – novel won’t get picked up. And I know that does not mean I’m not good or that my 10^th novel won’t get me an agent and a deal and possibly a spot on the New York Times bestsellers’ list.

When I lived in St. Marys, one of the major local political figures was a man named Steve Berry. Berry was an attorney, county commissioner and writer. Berry’s name has appeared on the New York Times bestsellers’ list more than once. But if you talk to him, he will tell you it was not his first, second or third attempt that put him there. It wasn’t even his first published novel that put him there. If I remember correctly, he told me that he’d written nine novels before getting one published. And I know that 95 percent (or something like that) of first-time novelists get published in their 40s. I’m only 32. I have plenty of time.

The rational me know this. But the little girl inside who has a dream lets fear of rejection hold her back. Though I’ve slacked on this blog a couple times in the last couple of weeks, I am still fighting my way back. I am still trying. And I hope through this exercise, I can push past the fear and just take that chance. Who knows? Maybe I’ll have the luck of Tom Clancy.