I write all the time. I've got notebooks filled cover to cover with phrases, paragraphs, dialogue. I compulsively transcribe overheard conversations. My constant internal monologue is so well developed as to be borderline schizophrenic. I'm just bursting with words, words, words.
And yet. To get them out, out here, especially, is like standing at the edge of a cliff, staring down where, hundreds of feet below, my friends are wading in a pool of the clearest, bluest, most picture perfect water ever, telling me it's easy, it's fun, the water is perfect, "Jump!"
But I can't do it. I close my eyes, I hold my breath, I take a few steps back and then... Nothing. Maybe I have to check there's no one in the way, or maybe I started off on the wrong foot like in bowling or trying to pitch a softball. I fucking choke. And I hate myself for chickening out, hate seeing other people NOT chicken out and succeed at something I know, I just know, I could do better if I could just. fucking. do. it.
It's especially hard writing here, in front of y'all. I read webpages of other people I know in real life and it's fascinating. You see a side of someone that is not present in their daily face to face type interactions. You get to see how they see themselves, really, through what they choose to write about and how. And what they leave out. I'm afraid of what the people I know think of the things I do and don't write about. Are my friends thinking: Is she going to write about this? If not, why not? Just last weekend I hung out with Jlo in the park. As we parted at Columbus Circle he said "Goodbye, I can't wait to go home and read about my day." Holy pressure, Batman!
Now he'll read that and I'll feel bad. Because I don't really mean it. I love the feedback, I love the readers. I love that people enjoy this bunch of crap I pitch into the void semi-regularly. So, please J, don't stop reading and don't ever stop commenting. This whole entry really was just a gentle push off the cliff. And it's true, the water's perfect.