It happens. And it can cripple you either way.
When you find yourself in that rare and paralyzing and exquisite place where it’s scary to write and it’s scary to not write – maybe think about this.
We sit around and we mull over and we wallow in the waiting . . . to see if our creation will ever finally look us dead in the eye. To see if we’ll be okay, if we’ll ever become ready, if we’ll ever find the strength, the reasons, the angle, the answers, the perfect what-have-you.
To expose ourselves.
To lay naked on the table and not budge.
To trust that something that wants this badly to rage out of us must have to get out for a reason (even if we don’t yet know the reason – even if we never quite know it).
So we dare.
And the blood rushes loud and hot in our ears and slams in our throats. We feel the fluid release of doing our thing, our way – the ferocious, pleasurable anguish of creating.
Followed, always, by the delicious, horrible, triumphant finish.
— Allison Marie (@GloryBegin) April 13, 2015
And then we hold on when we should let go . . . which is exactly what scared us in the first place. We confuse the creation with the reaction to it.
But nothing could ever reflect back to us just precisely what the glory felt like while we were creating.
No praise could ever quite mirror our ecstasy and no criticism our agony as we soared and battled within ourselves to bring our thing about.
Know this, be ok with this. Accept that the process is a different animal than what happens after it’s over. The creation journey is sacred all on its own.
So just write.
Just start the writing.
The fear will exist either way. Better to write – make mad love and fight to the bloody teeth with it – than just sit across the table staring at each other.
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