I write sometimes. I’ve published a collection of short stories and poetry. But there are way too many times I’ve told myself I’m going to sit down and work on a new story. I’ve got the plot outlined and everything. All I have to do is write it. But I don’t.
I write and record music sometimes. I’ve released one album and a few assorted tracks. But there are way too many times I’ve got a new piece all worked out, but I never sit down to start recording it.
I suppose it’s fear.
Is it fear that others might not like it? I don’t seem to be too worried about that. I haven’t set the world on fire with anything yet, and that’s okay. Even my closest friends don’t always know what to make of the stuff I create, and it’s rare when I get any feedback. But I don’t think that’s what I’m afraid of.
No, I think it’s more fear that *I* won’t like it. That I’ll spend a lot of time and energy on it but in the end, I won’t like it, and I will have wasted all those hours and effort. For nothing.
But I suppose that’s one of the biggest parts of making art: Wasting time. It seems that art, any kind of art, is marked by a creative process that’s like an atom — consisting almost entirely of empty space punctuated by the tiniest spark of reality. But within that one spark are all the fundamental forces of the universe.
It’s still a tough personal hurdle for me to overcome. I’m often stopped in my tracks by an empty screen, and I just can’t seem to convince my hands to start working. I’m frozen with fear. Fear of my own opinion.
I haven’t really figured out how to get over that yet.