Rollercoaster

Enough freaking out about whether or not I should, could, or can't. This, or course, doesn't mean I'm not going through the terror/elation/stomach butterflies that accompany posting my thoughts for the world to see.

It started this morning when I posted a journal entry on Facebook. Actually no, that's a misnomer. My reticence towards publishing ANYTHING has been firmly affixed to my psyche for a long time. Fear of judgment, perhaps, or told I'm full of it and should go back to answering phones.

Well, something like that actually did end up happening, in the worst-case scenario kind of way. See, I had been circumventing publishing my writing, and putting up roadblocks where I should have been removing obstacles. Do research, post on Facebook and see if anyone responds, that sort of thing.

Of course my "controlled" experiment failed miserably, and there it was, proof positive I'm ineffectual. Wow, the magnitude of my self-pity knows no bounds, and how simple the solution to these kinds of self-induced crises usually are!

Perfectly conveying sublime writing for ingestion by a faceless audience is a great enough barrier to scare the crap out of even the bravest of us, and needlessly so. The same damn thing happened to someone very close and dear to me yesterday. The same way I hoped I helped them, a friend today helped me. Funny how sure I was when I offered guidance, then wasn't able recall that same advice.

It's so simple. I write just because I love to.

I've been at it for ten minutes now and can happily report I haven't imploded yet. Instead, I followed my own damn advice and it liberated me.