Blame it on the cherry-pomegranate juice, or the brilliant Kansas sun reflecting off of the stainless-steel Chipotle patio table, but somehow my friend Mia convinced me that I need to give this writing thing a go–for real this time.
I’m not really sure what happened to me. Somewhere amidst my hectic life, I lost my courage to write. Not my passion, but my courage. Give me a topic to write about, give me a word count and my audience and I’m golden. Give me a blank page, with no restrictions, no particular audience and my fingers do the “clickity-clack backspace waltz,” where my best move is stammering out a few contrived sentences before frantically deleting it all.
What if no one likes it? What if I reveal my true self and I don’t even like it? Not many people enjoy standing in front of a full-length mirror naked. And if they do, they’re probably either intoxicated, crazy, or haven’t put their glasses on yet. (So maybe if I get a little tipsy and leave off the specs, my writing will start to look fabulous.)
Ok, that’s enough exhibitionism for now. Better publish this before I chicken out and my right hand hovers toward the upper-right side of the keyboard.