Start

It's hard. Starting. Taking first steps, or even a leap of faith, it's hard. Surrendering to a desire that contradicts every rational impulse, acknowledging that persistent whisper you've tried to muffle for years. Your whole life? There are no guarantees, no safety net. No regular paychecks. Just...the desire.

I've ignored it, locked it away somewhere, an oubliette of the mind. Except I could hear it, whispering, singing. Mournful songs of abandonment. And I longed to release it, but reason forbids. Reason always forbids, with terms of penury, and inadequacy, and frustration. Visions of a terminally blank page, a cursor blinking in accusation. And a familiar voice warning me that artists, writers, musicians, unless they are lucky or brilliant, never make a living for themselves.

I'm not particularly lucky; neither am I brilliant. The stone-forged practical side chose to examine literature rather than create it. What better way to remain close to your first love than to teach it? Write about it? Immerse yourself in pools of others' creation? Become an acolyte of words.

But no. Enraptured as I was by the words of others, always I longed for my own expression. I feared that my words would be insufficient, lacking brilliance. And fear has clogged my veins for years. Fear of failure. Always, always, that fear. And reason. It's...not very logical, living by your art. Not safe at all.

Except I don't belong out there, among people with the talent for efficiency. I am not detail-oriented, task-driven, a team-player.

I belong here, infused with words, hijacked by stories.

But I need a deadline. One that I can't change or ignore. Otherwise, I allow fear and insecurity to dominate, frustration to choke me, despair to stay my hand. I surrender.

I've decided. A submission before May, a story written and perfected. A step, a leap of faith. To live by words.