When I was a kid I was terrified of climbing into the pool. I wasn’t at all afraid of the water. The thought of drowning never crossed my imagination. No, it was the cold that held me at bay. That moment when your skin breaks the surface tension and that thin line of surface razors through your sensibilities and reminds you that this was a really bad idea but if you keep going you might get over it…eventually.
That is the moment I have every single time I need to start writing a new piece. The surface tension of a story terrifies me. Yet, like the water it is a hollow fear. It is the idea of the thing–the brief yet lingering feeling of desperation vs. the cold vs. the thoughts of commitment and possibility of failure–that conjures doubt and resistance. I have not written new work in well over a month. I have not written work that I was already contracted to write in nearly a year. I stand at the edge of the pool terrified to dip in my toe.
I don’t even know if fear or doubt are the right words for this situation. I do think the universe is not necessarily pushing me in one direction or another. I am faced with the choice to dive in or not and once in I ought to stay, because every time I get out this happens.