And still, I live

Nearly a week has passed since I nervously posted my first entry here. Considering that no one but the few friends I have given this address will ever read it, the nervousness was probably a bit superfluous. That's just what happens when you're crazy. Love me, love my neuroses. Anyway, I am happy to report that contrary to my fears, allowing someone else to read my thoughts has not caused me to shrivel up and die like a shame-filled, salted slug on the sidewalk. I live on.

Why is it that the things we are convinced will be terrifying are never really so bad in retrospect? I am trying to ease into writing a general blog here, in the hope that I will eventually work on and post some more creative endeavors. I don't know what this hang up is that I have about letting other people read anything I've written (other than e-mails - I can write e-mails of epic proportions). I'm fine with work that is academic, whether based on interpretation or fact. There I always have my research as a backup.

Endeavors that involve thoughts, ideas, and imagination that are purely my own are more difficult. I suppose it's the vulnerability factor. Letting someone read one's inner outpourings is a little like being naked in front of someone for the first time. Sure, you want the closeness that comes with it. You want the him to think "Isn't she lovely? I just can't get enough of her", but inside you're wondering things like "Is he going to be grossed out by my cutlets?"(If you don't know what a cutlet is, see the previous post). Or maybe you don't do that. Maybe I am just neurotic. But back to nudity...

The thing is that this first moment of fear is fleeting. Vulnerability passes, and as long as no one has left the room screaming "My eyes, my eyes!", suddenly you feel pretty comfortable. Suddenly you feel like maybe your cutlets don't stand out as much as you thought. I'm hoping that sharing a bit more of my writing will be the same way.

The other reason I want to do this is that I am completely devoid of self-discipline. When it comes to writing, I talk big, but don't actually get enough of it done. I have ideas that have been rolling around in my head for years. Again, I think it's a vulnerability thing. As long as I don't finish a project, it is still in progress, therefore it cannot suck. When you don't ever finish anything, you're never forced to be honest with yourself about its quality. Basically, I am a literary (or maybe just a trashy novel) chickenshit. Still, when I see that there are authors who can build a career on writing really bad novels about orgy loving vampires, I think I should be able to pull something together. I suppose time will tell.