There have been so many days I’ve tried to sit down to write +….nothing happens.

Well, nothing but a nagging voice telling me that I have no authority, no right to pump out whatever pearl of wisdom I’m about to pump out – to unveil whatever ache in me that needs to be set free.

A nagging voice that hisses, “You’re not really a writer. Real writers have published novels + Hollywood agents busting down their doors to turn their masterpieces into movies.”

A nagging voice tells me that because I’m not perfect + whole + entirely flawless + don’t know all the answers, I have no right to be creative. Self-expressive. A person worth listening to + learning from.

Yep. Because I’m not perfect.

WTF kind of bs is that?
(Pardon my French. Actually, don’t.)

And while it may sound outlandish, the nagging voice has hand-picked a bushel of ripe reasons why I’m not perfect, too.

I’m not perfect because everyday I usually do 1 thing I know isn’t good for me. (In my defense, sometimes what your soul really needs is a sickeningly fattening [yet succulently sweet] DQ vanilla milkshake or to vent your face off apologetically about your boss. Without guilt.)

I’m not perfect because everyday I ignore at least one red-flag that something in my life needs to change + shrug it off nonchalantly instead. (Sometimes denial is the safest place to be, at the moment.)

I’m not perfect because instead of telling someone – anyone! – I’m keeping about 9 gut-wrenching, heart-stirring, mascara-ruining secrets locked in my (heart-shaped) box. (Had to. I grew up in the 90s, k?)

And because I don’t know and/or use any word that’s more than 2 syllables. Like, ever.

So who the hell am I to share my truth with the world, huh?
[That was the fear talking, BTW/]

But does any of that really make me unworthy of being a writer?

Does any of that really mean I can’t teach you what I do know, the (often times, painful) lessons I learned while collecting those tear-inducing secrets + tucking them away?

Hell to the no.

Whenever we’re about to do something totally amazing, groundbreaking or status-quo-shaking – share that so-personal-only-your-tear-stained journal-knows-it story, release that painting which might as well have been made from brush strokes of your own flesh + blood because it took every ounce of your heart to create – fear (aka that nagging voice in our heads) kicks in.

Okay, fear ransacks the effing place.
It’s her job.

But does fear mean you should stop creating?
That you should give up, throw your hands in the air + say, “Eff it, let’s get appletinis instead!”
No way. (The appletinis will be waiting.)

I’m a staunch believer that you must persevere against fear.

That the only way to get over pain is to go through it, not away from it. I think you should create even when your heart is palpitating. I think you should make the call even when you’re sweating like a pig.

But what I don’t believe is that by diving into your fear, challenging it to a one-on-one, UFC-style smackdown, it’ll go away.

Even if you start creating regularly.

Nope.

Nerves are a part of the artistic process.

And the sooner you accept that, the better off you’ll be.

Ah, good ol’ acceptance.

That’s always the answer, isn’t it?

Doing something magnificent – something so outside the norm most people wouldn’t even dream about it, let alone act on it – will never be a piece of cake.
Ever.

[Psst. That’s why most people don’t!]

So, that’s how I continue to write in the face of my annoying, nagging, totally irrational fear. The knowledge + acceptance that there is absolutely NO WAY to beat fear for good is what gets me to sit cross-legged with the MacBook on my lap and soy frappucinno on my bedside table + just get real with myself, as counter intuitive as that may sound.

But wanna know what really gets me to hit the publish button, setting my fledgling little brain-bird out into the world to flappety-flap away its own?

It’s when I remember that my writing isn’t even about me, my fear, or my ego anymore.

It’s about you.