Sunday, 17 July 2011
For the days it comes crashing down
Linking this post today with Momalog as one of my favorite posts. It was written in a moment of vulnerability, and I want to be this honest in everything I write. It’s also a favorite because these feelings are cyclical, and I come back to this post when I feel this same way again. (Please read all the way through the comments — some of them are why this post is my favorite.)
There are those days, and they always come: When it all comes crashing down.
And as you stare at the wreckage, you wonder how the tottering mess ever stayed up at all.
I say the wrong thing. My insecurity threatens to eat me alive. I vacillate between feeling inspired and feeling absolutely crushed by the internal chatter: who do you think you are? and you’re a fool, and everyone can see it.
And it’s all a shadow of a thing, a vapor: something breaks and I see it all for what it is.
It’s all pride, and it’s all fear. It’s all me, scared to death of trying something that has a very high probability of failure. Writing what’s in my heart, letting it bleed onto the page, and then asking others to care. Seeing if their hearts have seen the same truths. Asking am I alone in this? to the whole wide universe, or to a literary agent, or a publisher, and then waiting for the answer.
It is crazy terrifying.
So I try to build it up, I follow the rules, I read the step-by-step blog posts, I figure out what I’m supposed to do and I do it. And some days, the comments and the analytics boost me higher, say see, yes, people hear you, and then the next day it all looks like shambles. The numbers don’t matter anymore, because it really comes back to the art. Numbers lie. Art speaks truth.
And the God of all Creation, the Source of this light inside, the Voice that inspires the words and without whom it would all be empty, he waits. He sees my fear, my pride, my pain. What he asks is simple: He only wants all of it.
Not for insecurity, which is my reason for trying to hold so tightly: He wants all of it so he can set me free. Find new words. Breathe new life. Co-create in this continual act of renewing it all until all is light and color and hope, and I can sit back, thankful. Not proud, but grateful. Humbled.