I feel it's time to confess the real reason I started this silly little blog o'things that nobody cares about but me.
I suffer from a strange affliction: Writer's Anxiety. Worse than writer's block, my anxiety is twofold: First, I cannot (or could not) stand to let anyone read anything I've written. This excludes silly Facebook posts and apparently, this blog. Second, I cannot return to any writing project that I've saved and walked away from without having a full-on panic attack. I go to click on the file name and my heart starts racing, my hands get sweaty and if I manage to open the file, I start to hyperventilate until I have to close the file and walk away again.
Imagine the musician who can't touch their instrument without losing it; an actor who cannot bear to even look at his script. That's me. A writer who cannot write. Utterly useless. A bibliophobe is one who is afraid of books, I'm not sure what you'd call me.
So, as I will turn 35 this year, I decided I was running out of time to do something creative. I've devised a therapy plan for myself in the hopes of overcoming my anxiety.
Phase one is writing this blog. This keeps me writing, even if it is topical stuff that nobody cares about. It also forces me to get used to the idea of letting people read my writing.
Phase two is to start writing actual stories again. I was going to start with short stories I could finish in one sitting, avoiding the anxiety of having to open the file again after the fact. In reality, I decided I'd get something written for a larger project I've been pondering. Now I'll have to see if I can return to it in a few days with no ill effects.
Cross your fingers. If things go awry, I take a step back and return to blogging-only until I feel brave enough to try again.