PhoebeJaneWrites

I stared at the store shelf in awe of what I saw. Another book published by a prolific and well known author. Recently, I had mentioned to a friend that this author releases new novels on a regular basis, and by regular I mean every few months. It is worth noting that after that conversation, I did an online search and found that this particular writer released four (4) novels last year. In fact, I did another search in preparing for this post and found that she actually has six (yes 6) books listed for this year and seven scheduled for 2017 release.
 
 Although I am not a huge fan of her work (she has a HUGE following and does not need me) I cannot deny that I admire her discipline and tenacity. As a writer, I find myself spending more of my time thinking about writing instead of actually writing. A litany of excuses will flow when I describe why I have not completed my novel or any of the other nearly finished projects that I have begun and yet the truth of the matter is that I do not make the time to finish.
 
 Initially, I thought my biggest issue was procrastination. However, I now understand that it is much deeper than just not “feeling Ike writing.” Instead, I have come to understand that my inability to stay committed comes from the horrid monster that stalks my creative world. He shoots down hope with daggers and kills of projects quicker than a new season of Family Guy on Netflix.
 
 That monster has a name and his name is Fear.
 
 Fear is an incredibly debilitating nemesis. It can freeze your heart with threats of lifelong failure and distract you with promises of future days free from his grasp. There are many tools in his arsenal including memories of past mistakes, opportunities missed and an hour glass reminding you of time slipping silently past.
 
 This monster has tracked me through the years, growing in size and strength until I realized that in fleeing from his grasped, I dropped many dreams along the way.
 
 Writing was not such a dream.
 
 As a child, I wrote to stave off other monsters: loneliness and insecurity. Armed with nothing more than college-ruled paper and a pen, I dreamt up worlds to replace my own and fought back against the bitter creatures that lingered in my peripheral. There were days when the words I poured onto the page were not enough to keep myself from drowning but some days I could calm the waves.
 
  It was years later that writing transformed me. In a corporate job, I watched my colleagues pack their belongings, severance checks in hand and only then did I know that my writing had become more than a tool. No words could dull the pain, end my confusion or assuage my rage. Instead, the emotions poured from me into stories that filled yellow legal pads. Werewolves and vampires preying on unsuspecting revelers all seemed so tamed when compared to the unsuspecting workers who were laid off because corporations needed to cut costs.
 
 Writing was no longer just a weapon to save my life, words became my life.
 
 This was no longer a hobby or a means to center myself. It became an aspiration, a dream that I could do more with my life than be a typical 9-5’er. Instead, I wrote in the hopes of sharing my worlds with others the way other writers had done for me.
 
 Upon this realization did the big hairy monster appear at my door.
 
 Fear had stolen my music and acting dreams. It ripped away my visions of sky-diving and aspirations to surf. Now it stood before me threatening to take another goal I held dear.
 
 In the place of a writer’s life it dangles dreams of comfort and stability, a steady job with a guaranteed income. Instead of traveling the world with nothing but a camera and my pen, Fear offered visions of a home and a family.
 
 I stare down at Fear and asked:
 
  “Why must I chose? Why not have it all?”
 
 Fear lets out a mighty roar and points to the hourglass reminding me that I am no longer a teen with her life before her. That choices will have to be made.
 
 Now, I make a choice.
 
 I grab my pen and I write.
 
 
 – Posted using BlogPress from my iPad