SquarePeg Books

Fear is an interesting thing. We all have different fears – heights, pain, children, dentists, clowns, ketchup stains and so on – but we all have some of the same fears, too.

Failure is a biggie, but in my experience, it isn’t just “failure” that’s the problem. It’s the consequences of failure that we’re afraid of. “What if people laugh at me?” is not a consequence that deters most people I know. “What if I plunge my family into bankruptcy by doing this?” is more what I and others I know fumble with.

If it’s just me taking the chance, well, I can shrug my shoulders and roll with the punches. I’ll figure something out if it goes awry.

But with the pressure of people depending on you, physically and financially, for at least another decade (or more), fear really starts to color your perspective on things.

Can I afford to fail?

Many people would call that question a motivator – you can’t afford to fail, therefore you will put everything you have into making it work. Except, as we all know, reality doesn’t work that way. You can bust your ass, doing all the right things, and sometimes, a lot of times, it simply won’t be enough.

So what brings on this post? As we all know, I’ve been moaning and groaning and struggling with a few, rather large, life-changing-and-not-necessarily-in-a-good-way things. Lots of stress. Lots of anxiety.  I’m a planner (for life things, not so much for writing), but some of these were not things I was planning on dealing with. I’ve been flailing about, trying not to hit people in the process as I try to suss things out, re-prioritize, plan, have plans fall apart, have a nervous breakdown, get back up and plan again.

The other day, my daughter and I were coloring and she asked about what I did in college and what I wanted to be when I grew up at her age. So I talked about writing and art and backstage theatre and archaeology, like you do. Of which list, I do very little of. And the next question she asked nearly killed me.

“So what happened when you grew up? Did you give up on your dreams?” Her voice shakes a little when she asks. She’s afraid to grow up. She sees me and she’s afraid that this is what it is to be an adult – an introvert who doesn’t seem to have a lot of friends or have time to do anything fun.

I fumble around for an answer and say something about not really giving up but they became more like hobbies because while some people can make a living on such things, I wasn’t able to (not really the archaeology excuse – that’s a different bowl of fish that I didn’t want to get into with a 9 year old).

I don’t want to tell her that, yes, I pretty much have given up. It’s hard to see the positive when many around you say your work “sucks” or simply isn’t good enough.  It’s hard to live on dreams when your stomach is empty.  It’s hard to make a move forward with everyone supporting you morally, but not in a physical fashion that you need.

Brant has said that maybe the current crises will give me the kick in the pants I need to pick up the pace on my writing. That the stress and the consequences of not publishing enough material, fast enough, with enough quality and marketing savy, will be enough to push me into success.

I don’t work that way.  If I think the risk to others around me is too great, I will back off into a safer (and more soul-crushing) option because I can’t risk their potential, their lives, their chances to move forward.

I want to tell my daughter that it doesn’t matter how many times you fall down, it matters only that you get back up each time and try again. I want to tell her to not give up on whatever dream she has. I want to be the example of the person who didn’t give up, who shows her it is possible to make dreams happen.

But right now I’m so desperately afraid that I’m almost paralyzed.