I’m in danger of losing my Writer cred… or I was, until she who shall not be named started throwing the truth in my face. For years, I’ve been able to subsist on the pretense – gigs at magazines on the lower end of the popularity spectrum (where, despite the seemingly low bar, I couldn’t survive), freelance work writing silly little articles that were really advertising, and Facebook posts that left me devastated if not enough people recognized their insight and awesomeness.
I’m not at all sure about this – my one consistency is an utter lack of certainty about anything except dark chocolate and the power of dachshunds. I know that above friend will read loyally no matter what, and I can maybe drag a dozen or so others in here, but I have no expectations beyond that. I’m already worried that somehow clients will see this and my career, such as it is, will be over. (I’m scared to even say what I do, that somehow I’ll end up in a Google search that ruins my “business.”).
My tendencies run toward the obsessive – for the rest of the day, my inner voice will tell me that this was an awful way to start, that I should have waited until I had something important to say. All at once, I’ll pray that no one actually reads it and that it will blow everyone’s mind. I so want to be a genius, whose every written word elicits gasps of wonders and comparisons to Thoreau, or McCartney, or Angelou.
I’ve had 2 people – one 41, the other in his 80′s – tell me to fuck fear in the last 3 months. I’m taking it as a sign, and jumping off the bridge. My hope is that a some point, at least a flash of smart, snappy writing will push through and this won’t turn int some kind of self-obsessed online diary. Even though I’m not religious, I’ll pray (maybe to Thoreau) that this isn’t some horrible adventure from which there’s no return.
Fuck fear – and cowardice, and safety nets.