There is a fear within me of the unknown, a fear of the dark and dirty soil beneath the surface.
Afraid of what I can’t see, what I can’t smell or touch or even conceive.
This is nothing new, of course. Damn near everyone has such a fear on some level, I believe. It undoubtedly is what has fueled some of the best stories of our time (related note: I’m currently reading Stephen King’s It, and holy hot damn, what a book).
Most recently the bulk of my fear has revolved around not knowing if there’s any true value in my words or stories for others. It’s whether or not I can reach the extent of my writing goals and if I do, what the hell happens after that?
Will others read it?
Will they enjoy it? Take value from it? Find inspiration in it? Will they care?
I mean, hopefully, yes. And some will care, some won’t, I get that, I’m fine with that, there’s no reason anyone shouldn’t be fine with that.
But every time I start, every time I lay the pen to page or tap away on the keys, there’s that haunting, nagging son of a bitch in my ear, Fear, laying the way for self doubt.
Still, I’ve realized something. For the longest time I felt the goal was to overcome fear, to be rid of it. To be fearless. No more fear, hands dusted clean, that’s it, thank you, sweet, moving on.
No. It doesn’t work that way.
Turns out — ha, ha! — FEAR is actually sort of a good thing, and, in an even more twisted way, a friend and a teacher. It’s not here to stop us. It’s here to guide us. And believe it or not, there is a blinding brilliant luminescence behind it.