Please Allow Me to (Re)Introduce Myself

 

Hey. 

I know it's been a while. I'm not sure why I do that. 

Well, I kind of do. It mostly has to do with discipline and fear. Which seem like odd things to associate with what writing is to many people, which is a passion or a creative urging, to express yourself and attempt to be understood. At first, this seemed to signal to me that writing was not something I was passionate about. It must have been a flash in my Gemini pan, or for another season, or perhaps not at all, because I could not find the discipline to write consistently to save my life. I must not be that into it.  It can't be my passion. 

Only every time I day dreamed about what my ideal life would look like, writing seemed to feature as a constant theme. In what capacity was far less clear, which began to precipitate the fear of the unknown, and how this unknown would pay the bills. Perhaps even more precisely, when I'm talking about the fear associated with writing, for me there is only one phrase that keeps me up at night: be authentic or be nothing at all. Be naked and vulnerable and on display or be stagnant, unchanging. Be the eventual subject of criticism, or simply left behind. Or, if you're going to do this thing, do it honestly and do it right. This terrifies me. This terrifies me so much, in fact, that my brain has seemingly found a way to self protect-- declare said writing day dream a fraud, that writing is more a thing of the past than any foreshadowing of the future. Fear allayed. 

So, to the discipline and the fear on this magnificent Monday, I say 'Get away from her, you bitch!' It's time I strap on my yellow metal cage machine thing and show you who's boss. Beginning with a new piece I wrote today about perfectionism and productivity, and how the only way to move forward sometimes (or, all the time) is one imperfect step at a time. Here I go. 

Till next time, 

Summer