Keeping on with writing takes much, much more courage than I ever imagined. It’s so easy to let other things take precedence because, after all, I’m not “proven.” It’s not a “real job.” Besides, it’s too hard. Just ask my mother. She’s been dead thirteen years now, and I can still hear her nasal Okie sneer saying, “What makes YOU think YOU can do that?”
I can finish a first draft now; I’ve learned to use the peer pressure of NaNoWriMo to propel me through writing fifty thousand words, but that’s letting fear of social disapproval grow to the point where it overwhelms the fear of public shame from publishing a bad novel.
I’m tired of operating from a place of fear. I want to be the hero of my own life, damn it. I want to learn to write with joy and grace. I want to finish something I’m proud of. I want to share it with readers, and I want them to keep pressing the “next page” button until The End.
What makes me think I can do that? Well, hell, what makes me think I can’t?