Blaaaaahg-ified

One week, I'm going about my business: breathing, eating, the usual. Tra la la la.

The next week I'm being trailed by an internal narrator who can't seem to stop herself from crafting every move I make into fully structured sentences. She's chasing me all over town, whispering in my head descriptive lines of witty prose sure to catapult me into fame as the world's most brilliantly poignant new author. So where the fuck is this narrator hiding when I finally have the chance to sit down and transcribe her strokes of genius? How convenient for her, really, to just up and evaporate like that.

What is it that holds a person back as they write, as they decide what they'd like to say and how to say it in a given moment? What is it that causes an artist to drink to excess and beat their spouse? Despite best efforts to convince myself of anything else, the answer is, indeed, the obvious one. Dammit if it's not the dreaded F-word, the middle finger that thrives on wagging itself in the face of vulnerable minds far and wide.

Fear. Fear of intimacy, fear of going deep, fear of the hurt, fear of experience, fear of lack of experience, fear of being found out, fear of looking stupid, fear of hurting feelings, fear of being wrong, fear of being right, fear of trying something different, fear of finding something I love, fear of the boogieman.

Right now the little narrator chick is telling me to relax and lighten up already. She's reminding me everyone starts from their own place, everyone brings their own level of experience - or inexperience - to their writing. She's telling me to knock off the elitist perfectionism and release the pressure that keeps me from making progress. She's telling me that I've already found my voice and to go ahead and use it. She's telling me...damn, disappeared again.

No matter, I've said what I came to say.