...And Do It Anyway.

In my thirties, I decided that I should do something that scared the heck out of me at least once a year. And I don't mean 'try sushi' or 'drive the LA Freeways at rush hour.' Although, both of those things could, possibly, hold valid fear factors for certain people... People who shall remain nameless... *shudder*

Anyway... I wanted to try something that was so far outside my comfort zone that it would make me break out into a cold sweat, possibly keep me up at night for weeks at the mere thought of how the heck I would ever accomplish it? Okay, I'm a middle child: that need to please, to succeed, and to prove that I, in fact, exist is in the job description.


Writing books was one of my wild hairs. Submitting them for sale, even scarier. Picture yourself stripped naked, holding a flogging strap with a little word bubble over your head saying "Thank you, sir, may I have another? (Name that film.) It turned out, I liked writing and selling books. It became a career.

Teaching writing at a major university extension was like that, too. (I endured an entire sleepless summer wondering how I could conceivably fill a three hour class and BTW, teach anything anyone wanted to learn.) Friends warned me against it, saying it would only interfere with my writing. But I did it anyway, because according to my devious plan, the very idea terrified me. I knew it was a good one. Ten years ago, I conquered that fear and I did not actually expire. I'm still teaching today. Sensing a pattern here?

It's been almost three years since I made the decision to apply to grad school after finding myself smack dab in the middle of an empty nest crisis. I did it with serious prodding from my DH (who understands my middle-child insecurities) but deep down, I relished a new challenge. And I thought it might be a good idea to have a backup plan for the future. Besides writing. Something that might involve a steady paycheck. Like teaching in a real college. So, I applied.

Then, I began to rationalize (Oh, yeah. This was part of the process.) "They won't take me." "I'm too old." "The low residency program is across the country from me. In Vermont. That's just crazy talk." No, I put the application in, I decided, and that was the scary part. I felt vindicated. Relieved. I'd done the hard thing.

Then one day as I was innocently listening to my cell phone messages, counting cracks in the sidewalk, I heard this:
"Hi, Barbara, this is P---, the program director at Goddard. I just called to say congratulations, you've been accepted into the Creative Writing MFA program starting in June..."

The rest I didn't hear. I think I said a four letter word.
By now, this sense of panic was familiar. But this time, I was so scared at the prospect I actually considered not calling him back. It took me two days to even tell my husband about it. But in the end, I did call the director back. And I accepted his acceptance. Because, did I mention? I'm a middle child.

Then, for the rest of the spring, I had a hard time sleeping.

Stay tuned for the stories of my Haunted Dorm Room and other grad school adventures. Meanwhile, inquiring minds want to know: Have you done anything to really scare yourself lately? I'd love to hear.

The Only Thing We Have To Fear Is...

Kathryn at Tender Graces asked this question today-- Who are you? How do you label yourself? And how do you validate yourself about what you do? Great topic, Kathryn!

This is a question that comes up with my students over and over. And to be honest, it's one that rears its ugly head with me as well. Students who struggle for years with their own writing wonder if they'll ever get published. I wonder if I'll find the level of success I want. It's easy to fall into the trap of comparing ourselves, our careers, our publishing advances with others. After all, most of my friends are writers. Published, unpublished, I've found that the way success looks on the outside doesn't always match what the writer feels on the inside.

One friend talked about making the New York Times for the first time and being elated. For a minute. Then she started to worry how long she'd stay there. Would her next book make it onto the NYT? And if it did, would it move up the list? Would she feel like a failure if it didn't? These fears are really no different from the ones unpublished writers have. Will I ever sell? Will this rejection be better than my last one? And if I win this contest, will it make me feel like a writer?

The line that we draw in the sand as our measure of success shifts constantly as we take steps toward our goals. We redraw the line and erase the one behind us. But why can't we be happy about our successes? Is it just human nature to forget what we've accomplished in favor of driving ourselves forward?

Maybe.

But here's what I know. Spending time worrying about things out of our control like publishing, sales figures, book lists and reviewers will only keep us from what we're really meant to do: To Write. Worry keeps us from putting our butt in the chair and doing the work. Fear freezes up creativity. It is the bogey-man of artistry. Whether you write, paint, compose, or do anything that fulfills you, Fear's only job is to stop you in your tracks. Most often, it comes in the form of small negative voices-- maybe the naysayers in our past-- who chip away at our confidence. But all we have control over is what we do. If we paint, we paint. If we write, we write. No one can take that away from us. And it cannot label us. Only we can know who we truly are.

And now a word from my Id (as in the Freudian neuroses to whom this post was really directed.) "That was very enlightened. But can we just readjust this sand line here a smidge?"

"No."

You see sometimes, I need to listen to my own advice. Thank you.