Sometimes I read through old stuff and come across rough gems. I thought maybe I’d start to share some of that here. Posted below is something I wrote 2 years ago and it still has much merit. Let me know what you think:
Fear of failure is really just fear of success. It’s being comfortable with playing small, shrinking from exposure.
I don’t fear failing, per se. I’m afraid of the fall, of what comes after I realize I’m soaring and instead of realizing that belief is what got me there, I allow doubt to bring me crashing, hard, back to the earth.
I’ve broken so many times. I always come back together.
But what if I don’t.
This is worse than having my inner mean girl tear me to shreds. She knows EXACTLY what to say. And I know how to put her in her place.
This is my innate resiliency packing its bags and saying Adios!!
This is my 1st-grade teacher telling my parents that I cheat, that I can’t POSSIBLY be THAT intelligent. This is my 9th grade English teacher telling me my writing is awful. This is my well-meaning dad editing my papers to the point that they are no longer mine and are all his. And though reason does not fail me and I know full well it was DAD’S writing my 9th-grade teacher hated, it sticks with me.
That little girl understood from the time she was 6 that she wasn’t enough. The 14-year-old got the double whammy of parental AND educational rejection. More “you are not enough.”
Never mind that I won an award for a poem I wrote in 6th grade. About trash. TRASH. I wish I had that still. It disappeared, probably by my own hand since I have a history of destroying the beautiful things I create. They have to be flukes so chuck it.
Never mind that every single professor I had in college that I had to write for saw SOMETHING of note, something worth commenting positively on. A couple went so far as to call me into their offices, me certain that I was about to be torn a new one, only to ask me why I was hiding. I’m so obviously capable of better than what I’m turning in so please give them something worthy of my abilities.
Never mind that every single person who has had the opportunity to read what I write, poetry or otherwise, is constantly checking to make sure I’m still writing. My best friend sends me links to organizations looking for writers, my uncle wants to make sure I’m not wasting a gift, my mom just knows that my sanity and continued happiness is contingent on my continuing to write. Something, anything. Just write.
I never set out to be a writer. Until VERY recently, I didn’t consider myself one. I often wonder if I’m not taking more than I’m giving. I get so much out of writing, but I can’t think of anything I give it. I don’t write because I have something to say.
Okay, yes I do. I always have something to say.
But I don’t write because anyone CARES what I have to say. I just write. I write because I NEED it. Because it’s a compulsion sometimes. Other times, I’m in a drought and can’t come up with a single thing to write. I suspect that’s more a symptom of laziness though, a shrug of the shoulders and instead sitting down with beer, wine, something adult and Netflix to numb out.
There’s a line somewhere though, between keeping things to myself out of self-preservation and keeping things to myself because I have no need to share. Or maybe that’s bullshit too.
Maybe it’s ALL bullshit.