WRITING PROMPT|FEARS KILL DREAMS

The Fear Of Success Is Real

Doing things just for fun is allowed

A few days ago, I commented to Rui Alves that I was working on an essay that I thought I could tweak a bit to fit his recent writing challenge, “Fears Kill Dreams.”

This is not that essay.

I scrapped the original piece I had intended to use, as well as the few attempts after it. I haven’t published in a couple of weeks and haven’t written anything of substance during that time.

Lately, every time I sit down to write, fear and anxiety seep in. I’ve been in these situations before, but never like this.

I’ve been rummaging around in my brain trying to figure out why this time is so much worse than anything before, and I think I finally have an answer. I believe it’s all because someone I used to know personally read one of my stories and reached out.

I’ve been exposed.

A few weeks ago, I wrote this story about workplace power plays and sexual harassment. I was white-hot angry when I wrote it and it showed. The story did really well as far as views and reads go, and I was initially thrilled about its success.

A few days after it was published, I got an email from someone I used to work with who remembered the incident in the story and the people involved. We’d been pretty close friends while working together, but after she moved to take another job, we lost touch. I hadn’t spoken to her in years.

She told me she’d been doing some random research online when she came across my article. She had never heard of Medium, but she recognized my name and wanted to read what I had to say.

I should have been happy that my outrage found such an audience. Instead, I was horrified because I’d been found out. My own family doesn’t read what I write on Medium. Why would anyone outside of this circus care about what I have to say?

Who the hell do I think I am parading around as a writer anyway?

Since then, life inside my head has been an interesting study of naked fear and confusion. My gentle muses have moved out and the tortured creatures who live there now have questions:

If you are successful with one story, will you ever be able to achieve that success again?

You were a financial analyst. What makes you think you can write creatively?

If people recognize themselves in your stories, will they come after you online, or in person with guns pointed at your head?

Then came their version of affirmations:

You’re ugly, your mother never loved you and you don’t write well.

Don’t ever quit your day job.

Only a few people make it big writing. You should relax and take a xanax.

Yesterday, after I realized that I’d wasted a couple of hours watching cute cat videos on YouTube, I finally got hold of myself. I sincerely wanted to explore this crippling fear and my reaction to my friend’s email. So, in an effort to find inspiration, and as I often do, I searched Medium to see what others had written about fear, anxiety and imposter syndrome. Why not cover all the bases, right?

Damn, that was a mistake — kind of. Because I found a lot of brilliant writing covering all of these topics and then some. In case you hadn’t noticed, Medium is full of excellent writers. Many of them have shared fabulous insights.

I have a stupid habit of comparing my work (all realms, not just writing) to that of others, especially when feeling fearful. It’s a problem I’ve suffered with my entire life. It isn’t that I’m jealous of someone else’s work, I simply fear that I’ll never measure up, or that I will never be as good.

At this point, I worry that this fear will dictate the rest of my writing experience.

This morning after a conversation with my son about the topics he’s studying in his psychology class, I remembered a story from my own introductory college psych course. At the time, the class was exploring the mind/body connection and how it could be negatively impacted by fear and anxiety.

In class, my professor told the story of a couple that had come to him for counseling because they couldn’t seem to conceive a child after a year of trying. They were getting older, time was running out, and they couldn’t stop worrying about whether or not they would ever be parents.

They were both physicists with PhD’s working on high level government contracts. They assumed that their superior intellect and drive would surely allow them to create a baby in no time.

Here’s what they told my professor in their therapy session:

“We’ve passed every medical test we’ve been directed to take. We have, for over a year, tried every scientific model and every nutritional suggestion that science has to offer, but have failed to conceive a viable embryonic specimen.”

I wish I could have seen the look on my professor’s face as he considered their highly educated word choices. Because, after listening to them, here’s what he told them to do:

“Go home, fuck for fun, and come see me in a few months.”

Of course, after a few months, they returned with the news that they were pregnant. My professor said they actually used the word “preggers.” I guess they learned their lesson.

Side note — picture me as a former Catholic school student, sitting in a theater-style lecture hall with 400 of my closest friends thinking, “Did he just use the f-word?”

We all write for different reasons, but surely, we do it so people will read our words. Being recognized, celebrated or criticized, is all part of the plan. As long as we enjoy what we do, we should continue doing it, right?

The truth is that having fun is what keeps me here in the first place. That and the wonderful friends I have made and continue to interact with.

Maybe my time has come and gone, but I don’t care. The little bit of success I had was gratifying. The claps and comments (even the negative ones) were incredibly rewarding.

I like the interaction I have with other writers and I’m learning tons from them. I want that to continue.

So, I’ll have to recognize the fear, allow it to keep me humble, then set it aside and continue on. Because doing this is fun, and sometimes, fun is all the reward I need.