I cried today at breakfast with my husband. Because? I have no idea. I was trying to come up with a title for this blog. The cafe was cold and I wanted it to be cozy. They ran out of coffee and the guy behind the counter blankly looked at me when I asked for more. I hate that apathy so much; a smile and an offer of a cappucino wouldn’t have been so hard. But really I was crying because I want too much, and I sometimes don’t know how to get it. And the only thing in the way is ME. That’s really frustrating. I can’t take myself out of the equation. I can’t distract myself. I have to deal with all of these insecurities and fears and judgements. I have to dismantle them one by one, and that sounds oh so daunting.
He stared at me like I was a tiny bit crazy. This man is really a cool guy. He supports me in this writing thing even though he was absolutely no proof that I know what I’m doing. He doesn’t even ask for proof. He just tells me to do it. So he looks at me, and says:
“What happened to the girl at dinner the other night? The one that was all fired up and ready to start? The one with all the plans?”
Well for one, that girl had a lot of champagne. And it was New Year’s Eve, which can lead to ill-recommended and gratuitous grand statements of resolution. But. I had been serious. And I had been thinking about it before the champagne.
I told him the truth. That I felt stupid. That my ideas sounded stupid and I was afraid. Afraid of being inconsequential, and cheesy, and self-indulgent. Afraid of not doing a good job.
And he said: “Who cares?”
Right. Good man, this one. Who cares? I do, but so what? I do know that the only way through the bad and self-indulgent writing is to keep writing and writing and writing, until the writing gets good. I know there are no shortcuts. I know I have to get over myself.
So here we go. The writing will be bad. Things will be annoying and self-indulgent at times. But maybe something great awaits me on the other end. Maybe, someday.