For the past month I’ve been working on a project that terrifies me.
Which means, of course, I haven’t really started it.
It’s an idea I’ve had for two – or maybe it’s three years now. I think I’d half-convinced myself I never would write it.
And then, spurred by some outside forces, I made a choice to work on it, to write it or at least some of it – just enough of it for an application I want to submit.
I’ve been reading, doing a lot of research, keeping myself safely swaddled in my comfort zone. As I read, there’ve been sparks of things, mainly strong visual images, which rarely happens in my process. And there’s been sudden excitment, a feeling almost of exhiliration, when I find something, something that works or that feels very right or that makes the whole thing seem more possible. But then I push everything back down, I clam up, I stop the words and the voice.
Why?
I’ve got a list of reasons as long as my arm, which isn’t surprising given I’ve reasoned myself out of working on the piece on a nearly daily basis.
It doesn’t feel like something I would write – that’s near the top of the list. It feels political. Outspoken. Loud.
Then there’s all the “I don’t knows.” I don’t know what happens or how or even fully who’s in it. I don’t know if I have a right to write about some of these events or experiences. I don’t know if I can look at what I need to without flinching.
I don’t know if it will work.
I realized today that all those reasons on my list come down to one basic thing: I’m a coward. Because I’ve not even tried.
So tomorrow, I’m going to wake up, and I’m going to spend the day facing the page.
I’m going to be brave.
I’m going to try.
heather debling 