I could write volumes on this subject, albeit boring ones. They would drone endlessly on about every worry, pang of anxiety, and brush with paranoia. I’m not joking. If I journaled each time fear crept into my psyche, I’d get nothing else done. It is probably the greatest source of counter-productivity in my life.
Fear dampens creativity, unless you count playing an endless loop of worst-case scenarios in my head as creative. It’s the stuff Hollywood epic disasters are made of or at least an estrogen-fueled Lifetime movie. And do you know how many ways there are to check on your college-age children without looking like you’re checking on them? Countless. Although, I have a sneaking suspicion my kids are onto me.
The worst is how fear gets in the way of doing what I love and believe I am called to do: writing.
I tell people that writing is the hardest thing I have ever done. It takes discipline and time, two things in short supply. Seems I’ve always got somewhere to go or a chore to get done. Taking chunks of my day to devote to this craft is such a huge mountain to 
climb. Mountain climbing is hard work. Only the most physically committed and mentally fit scale the greatest heights. Looking up for too long can completely overwhelm you; looking down can paralyze you.
It takes courage to write. Ernest Hemingway said it best “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit at a typewriter and bleed.” It’s not enough to throw thousands of words down on paper. The most intriguing characters can fall flat and the coolest plot induce somnolence if it is all skin deep. You have to throw your heart into it, leaving your rawest emotions and keenest insights up for criticism. You have to be willing to expose your soul.
I don’t know about you, but that scares me to death. Like moving to a new town and walking into school for the first time kind of scared. Like picking teams in gym class scared.
What if they don’t like me?
What if they hate my writing?
Yes, yes…the world will keep spinning on its axis and the sun will rise tomorrow. I know that may not take away the hurt and feelings of failure, but it does mean something very important: I get a second chance. I can revise that manuscript yet another time, flesh out that idea that’s been burning in my brain, throw down that first draft of a story that’s nagging to be told. In this I find my comfort and the strength to rip my heart out for the world to (someday) see.
And yeah, I’m still afraid. I’ll write anyway.