I don't know how to be right now.
I'm a writer, but the effort required to compose an e-mail is almost beyond me. Words run away. Thoughts scatter.
And forget blog posts! I haven't much to say.
Unexpected possibilities have opened up for me, but I'm hesitant to step through those open doors, not because they seem ordinary or too small for my big dreams, but because they are passages toward those dreams. They require work; I can do that. They also require stepping over a boundary, a literary lintel; what if the work is beyond my abilities?
What if I fail?
And, if I fail, does that negate the dreams?
In the logical part of my brain, I know the answer. Failure does not necessarily mean, well, failure.
Not everyone will like what I do, what I write. That's to be expected.
Will I have the courage to keep writing it anyway?