“Everybody walks their own path. These paths may touch, they may intersect, and they may even merge for a length of time. They will never, however, be exactly the same path.”

B-ism, 07/17/2012

I have a confession to make.

I’m afraid of becoming a published author.

I’m afraid of what will happen. I’m afraid of what it will mean.

I think I have a variance of graphophobia.

Considering I’m trying to become an author, these all may serve as some serious roadblocks.

When I was about twelve years old, my middle school class took a trip to an ice skating rink. I had ice skated before, but this time the ice was different, felt different – more icier. All of my classmates bolted onto the rink with little hesitation, but I couldn’t move. I sat on a bench for nearly three hours, watching even the most timid and clumsy of students cackle as they slipped around in front of me.

Several times I stood up.  Several times I sat down. There wasn’t an encouraging word from my friends, the teachers, or any sympathetic strangers that could get me off my laced feet.

When the final whistle rang for everyone to collect their things and file back to the bus, I hadn’t even taken a step towards the ice. I untied my skates and returned them to the check-in station, and I went and sat at a window seat near the front of the bus while my friends laughed and cheered over the fun they’d had. My depression was deep, but nothing matched the disappointment and confusion I felt for myself.

Throughout my life, I have lived hesitant to try anything new and exciting. My friends and family have driven into experiences headfirst and supported the philosophy that, if it didn’t kill them, it would make them delightfully stronger. I’ve watched them with admiration and pride, but I’d be lying through my teeth if I didn’t say that a thread of envy didn’t stray into the seams of my emotions.

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