I'm going to blab and ramble (maybe mostly to myself) as a way to avoid other writing I could be doing because writing means exposure and sometimes that makes me nervous. I'm often a mystery to myself and that tells me there's most likely more to unearth than has already been dug up. It rouses me. It terrifies me. Isn't it easier just to leave it all buried? Easier, perhaps, but suffocating.
When I sit down to write I navigate under and over criss-crossed, seductive wires. Sometimes they paralyze me altogether. Stare at facebook again rather than write. Have a snack. Move books around on your desk. You have to make the right decision about what project to start next. Don't make mistakes. Your writing is boring, so you might as well do something else.
Collaboration, I'm sure, would help stave off the self-defeating thoughts and it's immensely appealing, but I'm afraid of not keeping up or botching something that would otherwise be amazing. Ah, yet that anxiety is only another taut wire to trip me up and send me sprawling.
Fear–though it may drip, cold and wet, into the spaces between my ribs–is not meant to prove most powerful. I have sparks of passion in my belly and I don't want to put down my pen.