I was talking with my friend Rebecca a while ago, who was telling me about a challenge she had undertaken at her barre exercise class. “The goal is to complete 45 barre classes in 30 …
becoming a writer
Reasons Why I Write
In my last major post, I discussed my fears to pursue my lifelong sleeping desire to be a novelist. I call it a sleeping desire because, although I have literally been writing, illustrating, and narrating …

The Return of Writer’s Block — and How I’m Dealing
Any writer’s who’s a real writer will feel the pain of sitting at their desk, their brain pumping and flowing with ideas — when suddenly, to their absolute horror, they don’t remember how to get …

Writer’s Relapse
I’m having a minor (okay, major) writing “what if.” I can tell that I am having this moment due to several of my usual anxiety symptoms: I’m staying up late, feeling like I should be …

The Fear Who Would Be King
“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.

Writing Prompt: One Very Memorable Night
In lieu of my pursuit to become a published author (heck, it’s hard enough just getting up the nerve to post here), I have decided to start writing prompts from various websites and posting them here, …