Nobody's going to know my name

 Nobody's going to know my name 

years from now

whether I write these words

or let them slide off

the page into

oblivion.

What difference does it make,

really? Who am I writing for

anyway, if not for myself,

to find out what

I'm thinking in this moment

and the next?

I guess there is always

the fear of disappearing,

of vanishing from view,

of no one ever remembering

that once I was alive

and breathing and feeling

the pulse of life.

It's so strange to think

of leaving this world

without a trace of my

existence--except for

a headstone--to mark

the span of my life

on earth.

We become like dust

as the Bible says,

tiny specks of dust

that dance in the light,

ghosts of who we were,

memories of a life once lived,

forgotten,

except for the words

we leave behind.

This Is How Writing Works

This is how writing works for me, which is going to be different than how it might work for you since each of us holds a pen in our own unique way, or types by applying our own subtle or not-so-subtle pressure with our finger pads to the keyboard, or looks through our own lens at a blank sheet of paper or computer screen.

You might think that writing starts with a blank sheet of paper, but it doesn't, not for me anyway, although that sheet of paper is foremost in my mind (not the paper itself so much as its blankness). I know, of course, that sheet of blank paper is waiting for my words to fill it, even though I’m not yet at my desk. But, even so, writing doesn't start with that blank sheet of paper.

It starts with fear. 

I can be in the bathroom washing my face and thinking about that piece of paper or I can be lifting my head off the pillow after a good night’s sleep and suddenly, before I blink my eyes awake, that blank sheet of paper can flit into my thoughts, and along with it comes the fear that always accompanies writing, or, on some days, not writing.

See the way it works? Writing starts not, as you might think, with a blank sheet of paper, but with a choice: to face this fear of emptiness, of blankness, or run away. Sensing this fear is the way writing begins for me long before I sit down at my desk. It doesn't matter what I plan on writing. It only becomes a day of writing if I’m able to overcome this fear and choose to write.

This fear is such a large part of my being. It seems to accompany me everywhere—into the shower or to the bathroom when I brush my teeth or on my morning walk or while I’m eating breakfast or as I’m checking e-mail or making lunch or during my late afternoon run or even after dinner when I’m reading or stealing a few minutes watching Netflix. And feeling these moments of fear means that I'm constantly feeling the need to make a choice--to go to my desk to write or to get into the car and go to the beach to avoid writing; to sit down in front of my computer or to go back to bed; to take my journal and pen to a quiet nook in the library or to retreat to a local nature sanctuary to go birdwatching.

Writing starts with fear, and if you don’t feel this fear before you begin to write, you’re one of the lucky ones. I've felt this fear in many different forms ever since I started putting words on paper in high school. The fear that I won’t have anything to say. Or the fear that what I do have to say is utterly worthless. Or the fear that what I say will sound stupid and inane and ridiculous. People will think I’m silly. You’re a writer? They’ll ask this question innocently but with such an undertone of disdain and disbelief in their voices that I’ll begin to doubt myself. Me? A writer? Who am I kidding? Just because I happen to be holding a pen and notebook in my hand? Oh, how funny!

So, this is how it works (for me): writing begins with fear and with learning anew each day (each moment) how to deal with this fear—to face it, to put it in its place, or to step over it without disturbing it while it quietly sleeps—so that I can get to the page and begin writing.

But here’s the thing: getting to the page doesn't mean I've accomplished my mission. Sneaking past fear isn’t enough. Once I reach the page, I’ve got to deal with my own doubts and lack of self-confidence to get words on the page. You may think it’s easy once I get to the page, but it's not. Waiting for me on the page are the demeaning voices that I hear in my head and that can distract me and pull me off course if I let them. I need to shut them out if I’m going to write. Doubt, lack of confidence, insecurity, fear—these are all obstacles that can keep me from writing unless I learn how to hurdle over them or crash through them or subdue them if I want to write anything.

What I've learned over time, though, is that words have great power to dispel fear and doubts. When I finally get to the blank sheet of paper and start writing, in spite of the fear and despite the voices warning me to stay away from the page, suddenly I discover—because it’s the way my brain works—what I’m thinking. It's like magic. A light bulb goes on as soon as my pen starts moving across the page. It’s as if the keyboard lets me slip past my fears and doubts once I start typing. This is how I discover what I’m thinking, and I don’t really know what I’m thinking until I start writing. (Believe it or not, I had no idea I was going to write about fear when I started writing this morning).

I would love to be able to compose sentences and paragraphs and whole stories in my head. But I’m not that kind of writer. I’m the kind of writer who needs paper and pen. I need a keyboard and a screen. There’s something about moving my fingers and seeing my hand move, or just turning a page, or hitting the “return” key, something about these small actions, that, for some reason, bring out my thoughts.

Without paper and pen, I’m mute. 

Words come slowly, often with a struggle. Rarely do they flow out of me. Each sentence, each paragraph, is shaped on paper, by paper and by pen.

What about you? Do you struggle with fear? Do you prefer a pen, pencil, or keyboard? Do you compose in your head, or are you the kind of writer who needs to write in order to discover what you think? 

One of my teachers, Joy Chute, told me years ago that ultimately whatever method you use to write is irrelevant as long as you get the words on paper.  If a particular method fails you, abandon it. If it works, embrace it... and write!

For more information on how writing works, visit:

https://www.nownovel.com/blog/the-writing-process/

https://writingcenter.gmu.edu/articles/9215

http://www.songwritersonprocess.com/

https://www.brainpickings.org/2012/11/20/daily-routines-writers/

https://www.brainpickings.org/2013/05/03/advice-on-writing/

Waking before dawn

Each morning before dawn I wake in fear.

Today will be the day I discover I have nothing to say.

Then I remember.

Fear is an illusion.

A shadow on the wall.

And I step out of bed.

And my feet feel the firmness of the earth.

And I remember that words, like the earth, are always there.

Invisible, like gravity, until I reach for a pen and start writing.

Only a pen and paper and the feel of words flowing will send the fear away.

It is the same every morning.

Waking in the dark.

Believing it's over, the magic of words.

Then feeling the earth beneath my feet.

And remembering.

No, it's not over.

It's just beginning.

I have only to reach for my pen.

And remember.

See You Later, Alligator

There are days when writing feels like tiptoeing past alligators lying in wait, eyes aglow, watching as I struggle to keep my balance on the slippery stones leading across the swamp.

No matter when I start writing, the alligators are always there waiting for me to fall. They are my fears, anxieties, and doubts waiting to ambush me.

The moment I set foot in the water, the alligators are ready to pounce and wrestle away my desire to put words on paper. The mere sight of them fills me with dread, and I fear they will drag me under and drown my love of words and stories.

But one of the things I’ve learned about writing is that, even though alligators are lying in wait, I still have to get into the water.

No matter how frightening they may appear, I have to stare down their hungry eyes, confront their rows of sharp teeth, and dive past them into the story that I need to tell.

These alligators are the gatekeepers. Before I can write, they want proof that I have the courage to tell a story. They require evidence that I need to tell this story. (How badly do I need to tell it? Badly enough to wrestle alligators?)

And here’s the other thing that I’ve learned about alligators lying in wait for me.

The moment that I jump into the water and begin writing, the alligators—each and every one of them—disappear like ghosts scattering at the first hint of dawn.

They are nothing more than illusions trying to keep me from writing.

The simplest movement of my pen, the slightest sound of my keyboard, sends ripples across the page scattering away my fears, anxieties, and doubts.

It happens every time.

It’s part of the magic of writing.

If you want to write but are afraid of alligators lurking beneath the surface, pick up your pen and begin anyway.

Then watch your fears and doubts scurry away in the time it takes you to say: “See you later, alligator.”

For more on getting past the fear of writing, take a look at:
http://allume.com/2013/07/how-writers-can-overcome-fear-with-one-word-begin/
http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/10-ways-to-harness-fear-and-fuel-your-writing
http://www.prolificliving.com/overcome-fear-of-writing/
http://badredheadmedia.com/2013/10/05/get-past-fear-just-write-guest-rebeccatdickson/
http://www.makealivingwriting.com/definitive-guide-overcoming-writing-fears/

Facing Fear

Fear can serve as a writer’s greatest enemy.

It can keep you from beginning a new project or prevent you from probing your heart too deeply.

It can create a wall past which you’re unable--or unwilling--to go, and your view of the world will be diminished as a result.

But fear can also serve as a writer’s greatest ally.

It can alert you to the very subjects and themes that might serve as foundation stones for your stories.

The trick to using fear as an ally is to notice when you begin to feel afraid.

Rather than allowing it to stifle you, let fear open you to new views.

If you’re afraid of the dark or reluctant to talk about a particular subject, begin to notice the subtle shifts in your emotions when you enter a dark room or are invited to join a conversation. Try to stay present in that moment. Try to analyze the emotion and understand what’s causing the fear to rise in your gut.

If you notice that you’re afraid when you step into a dark room–or simply when you imagine yourself stepping into a dark room–you can use that fear as a catalyst for exploration in your writing.

If you notice that you shy away from a certain person, or that you’d prefer hiding in the back of the room rather than standing in front of a large audience, you may have found the material that will provide you with the very stuff of which good writing is made.

On the other hand, if you let fear paralyze you, you allow it to become your enemy, and you lose your chance to move past it, to use it to open a door into a new way of viewing yourself and the world.

The subjects and themes that we select to write about are not accidental. They are direct outgrowths of our personalities.

How we choose our themes and subjects (or how they choose us) may prove to be a mystery beyond our understanding.

But facing our fear to explore these subjects and themes will help us better understand what we need to write about... and, in the end, enrich our stories, as well as our lives.

How do you move past fear? What are some of the strategies that you’ve developed to keep fear from paralyzing you and leaving you motionless, stuck, unable to move past it?

Write when you get a chance and let us know.

For more information on facing fear, visit:
http://www.authentic-self.com/facing-fear.html
http://www.imakenews.com/worldwit/e_article000277764.cfm
http://www.unfetteredmind.org/articles/fear.php
http://www.tupelokenyon.com/2007/07/13/facing-fear-with-deliberate-awareness/