Fear is the loudest voice I hear 8/16/2005 5:37:04 PM
Alone, I write, my fear ever present.
In my office, with the door closed and the heater on, I struggle to find the words to write. It is during the greatest struggles that an email from a friend can help to snap me out of it, to refocus me on the task.
Lonely, isolated, struggling, and yet no emails, no contact with anyone. It makes me feel even lonelier.
Am I kidding myself with this dream to be a writer? Am I deluding myself in even thinking I can string sentences into any form that an editor would be prepared to pay money for?
Perhaps I should quit. Get a job, like all my friends. Focus on the daily toil, the struggle of getting up and getting the washing done, lunches made, bed made, and off to work to struggle all day and then come home, help kids with homework, cook dinner, clean up the kitchen, do the ironing, spend time with my family, go to bed, try to sleep, then get up again the next morning and do it all over again, never having time to visit friends let alone make contact. Should I do that? Should I become the one who is too busy to make contact? Am I sulking?
And yet…I love to write. I have dreamed of being a writer for most of my life…but a dream does not dictate success. My struggle seems to indicate that I might not have what it takes.
Time. I need more time. I need to develop a name for myself, come up with more great articles. I need more time. Or, with the passing of time will the questions and fears still be the same?
Lonely, in my small room, I am easy prey for fear. Other people have lives, I just shut myself away in this room.
In truth I have no idea if this is what I am meant to be doing with my life. Part of my Soul screams ‘yes it is!!!!’, but there is a part of my mind that screams ‘you are not good enough…you are unworthy…delusional…go and get a real job and stop pretending to be something you are not!”
This laptop and me, we are buddies, we work hard together, she is my access to the world, she is my world.
Lonely, in this room, I am afraid that the years I have worked at writing have been wasted years. Have I been misled? What if there is no such thing as destiny? What if I have merely been deluding myself?
Yet, I keep coming back to that word again: time. I need more time.
Lonely. My fear is the loudest voice I hear, the strongest emotion I feel.
If I was a real writer I would be able to reel off the words so easily, and yet I struggle. If I was a real writer, I wouldn’t have to struggle, the words would flow, there would always be a backlog of article ideas to work on.
I am afraid, that who I think I am, is not who I am at all.
