Meaning in the Mundane {20}: Scaredy cat.

I was going to put an image here, but (and this is free advice, people) googling images with the term “scared” is really fucking bad for anxiety. I know. I am so smart. S-M-R-T.

As my byline mentions, writing here on medium is my scary thing for the year. Every single time I hit publish (which is just such a scary word, btw?) I instantly have a moment of…just…shit. I probably sound like an idiot. And it doesn’t matter — whether it’s an actual article or one word response, I have to go through this two to seven minute process of convincing myself it’s totally ok if what I wrote is the worst piece of writing ever written.


And so, because, (as mentioned above), S-M-R-T, I found an actual place where I could submit something. And, like, maybe even get dollars for it.

::insert google image for terrified here::

I mean, who the hell am I to pretend that I’m anything more than a Normal McNormalton, blogging on a free platform because I think my thinks are so very thoughtful but not so thoughtful that anyone would give enough shits to pay me for them? That my writing style is anywhere near the caliber of those writers (who will remain unnamed, mostly because I don’t want to call their attention) who bring in all the hearts of ever? To think that I could possibly call myself A WRITER, that hallowed title that conjures up images of the solitary, coffee-and-booze-and-cigarette scented artist, laboring intently over their cherished but tortured works?

I was never the writer in high school. My work was never held up as exemplary. I sat comfortably, if not slightly annoyingly, at the bottom of the top or the top of the middle, only crossing into that coveted top(wish) position Trump-sized handful of times (see what I did there with the unexpected Trump reference? Eh?? Ehhhh???). I was never that cool kid who could get away with the odd curse word or drug reference because it was just part of my edgy style. People didn’t glaze over with that teen-aged stare of envy and awe when my stuff got read out loud.

So…what the actual hell am I doing? Why am I spending all this time and energy trying to bully my way into something that maybe I’m just not cut out to do? Why the hell do I seemingly want it so badly? And um…if I want it, why am I so fucking terrified of the steps necessary to make it happen?

Time for weed cream and my secret Mounds bar. shhhhh. Don’t tell.