If you’ve watched Batman
Begins, you’ll know young Bruce Wayne suffers a justifiable phobia. Rather
than simply conquering that fear, though, he uses it as a weapon against his
enemies. (I wonder how well that would combat my aversion to escalators.) In
Star Trek: Voyager season 2, episode 23
(The Thaw), a personification of fear
threatens to kill B’Elanna and Harry. Obviously those characters’ struggles are
just the tip of the iceberg, because let’s face it, there’s plenty in this
world to dread. Ebola for instance. (Bet you didn’t see that coming.)
As a child, I read and reread Z for Zachariah. Fahrenheit
451 always brightened my day. Stories like After Earth, City of Ember,
The Hunger Games, and Divergent are right up my alley. With
tastes like mine, you’d think I’d be Dauntless. (See what I just did there?) Yet
when I was younger, I feared getting eaten by a tiger (because we all know
large cat attacks are very common in Maine). A shark patrolled the
undergirdings of my bed, and it was necessary for me to sleep curled in the
fetal position because a giant lobster shared my sailboat sheets with me. So
how could a girl who fears answering the phone possibly enjoy living
vicariously in a shattered world?
Some people chase fear—they love the adrenaline that
reminds them they’re alive. They love the defiance of speed and the pushing of
boundaries and the straining of limits. I admire them—I really do. I applaud
them from my perch on the couch with my feet tucked up so the spiders can’t get
me. And while I’m busy chewing my nails at the thought of public speaking, some
poor bloke in Australia is getting eaten by a crocodile.
Right now there’s nothing more dangerous in my life
than crossing the street (although there’s the occasional tuna salad left over
from last week and the questionable lunch meat, but you get my drift.) And I’m
not complaining. I’m perfectly content watching the ceiling to make sure no
workers crash through their re-shingling job and smush me.
On that note, here’s where I let you in on a little
secret. Unlike some brave, brilliant souls, I have to write my blog posts at
least two days in advance, and I usually spend around three hours editing. Maybe
I could be better and faster if I tried, if I pushed myself and took a few more
risks. But you know what really holds me back?
Fear.
It’s not that I’m afraid my readers will judge me. But
I do fear failure. I dislike the idea of putting my worst foot forward, giving
a bad impression, writing something dumb. More than that, I dread the time when
I will have nothing left to say, the time when I will have to quit. And I hate
looking like a quitter. Which is silly, if you think about it, because I don’t
even know half of you. I wouldn’t know if you were judging me any more than I
would know what you ate for breakfast or how many times you change your socks
on a given day.
Maybe I fear myself, not you. Maybe I fear the
heavy-handed editor looming over my inner shoulder, the monster at the fringes
of my mind growling that I’m not good enough and never will be. Maybe I’m so
focused on pleasing this tyrant, I hardly notice when I’m strangling myself.
Remember that short story collection I told you I was
writing? I started it just to pass the time until I can resume my actual
work-in-progress in November. And I began this experimental project with one
simple rule. I can write anything I want, fill the pages with anything I dream,
no reservations—but I must not limit my imagination. Mental restrictions are
strictly forbidden (except, you know, where common sense applies.)
And do you know what’s happened? Has the universe
exploded? Have I failed miserably? Have I written charming and beautiful prose?
I don’t know, because I never reread until I’m done. But
I do know that I’m having more fun than I’ve had in a long time, and I’m remembering
once more, why I started writing in the first place. Even if the work I produce
is rubbish, at least I’m defying my fears. At least I’m living.
So, now that I’ve amused myself with that little
tangent turned pep talk, let me resume my original trail. Reading is escapism. I
need something to keep my mind from stagnating. When I’m bored, I choose something
scary or interesting or cheery. When I’m depressed I indulge in something
tragic, to distract myself with another’s problems.
But then the real world comes along and crashes my
party. Sure, I could spend hours crowing about sunrises and sunsets and leaves
and snowflakes. I could extol the virtues of pumpkins and rodents (though I
figured I’d spare you that…for now.) But those are just the wrappings, the
pretty bow and the pretty paper masking the not-so-pretty truth of existence.
Life bleeds mercilessly into prose and poetry. Ever
read a sad story and wonder if you can hear the author crying? Art is the
translation of pain. And writing is a symptom of reality, not the cure. Horrors
like Ebola ravage us, and we get scared—so we write something. In our fragile
minds, we create worlds we can control, where we set the rules of physics, and
no one gets hurt who isn’t supposed to. Hope is easily manufactured—we could
sell it in bottles if we liked. And fear becomes fun. Isn’t that how we cope?
Sometimes I entertain another fear—that the job I’ve
chosen isn’t worthwhile. I love to write—but what if that isn’t enough? What if
I never do anything to benefit the world? Worse than quitting is the notion of
wasting my days as an eternal kidult, growing fat off the labors of others,
making money off their pain. What’s the point if that’s all this is, just
another case of, “I get to live my dream while life robs you blind.”
Often it feels like chasing after the wind.
But then I imagine a world without movies or music or
books. I imagine an age where everyone works and nobody plays. I imagine a
society so riddled with the holes of propaganda and brainwashing that all the
love has spilled out into chasms of nothingness. I imagine a starry sky, devoid
of music; a crimson sunset with no one to notice; the last few strains of
poetry rattling around forgotten in the cranky recesses of a decaying brain.
And that scares me more than anything else.
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