Writing is the activity I most enjoy doing (I don’t have a girlfriend at present), and yet, though I enthusiastically await every opportunity to write, hoping to create literary compositions, when I am faced with the blank paper I procrastinate. I do a thousand menial tasks to ‘prepare myself for writing.’ And by the time I am done with them, half an hour or more has passed, and I feel too tired to write and forsake the pen and paper. Alas, it is fear of writing!
Three days ago I procured a notebook. No sooner did I perceive its beautiful blank pages that I felt a great urge to fill it with my profoundest thoughts and deepest emotions. This notebook has been in my possession for 72 hours. It’s still blank.
I want to write short stories, novellas, novels, some fantasy, others realistic, I want to write day and night. I feel I have to. Else I fear I shall be seized by madness. And yet a greater fear posses me, the fear to write…
By the way, I have also ordered a fancy leather-made journal, after reading Anne Frank’s diary the other week. If she poor girl kept a diary, can’t a boy with a hat do so as well?
Alas, I fear the notebook will remain empty by the time I receive the journal. And then, for at least a week, I shall be in an emotional turmoil because I will be unable to make up my mind about which to fill first, the journal or the notebook. And by the time I will make up my mind, Christmas will come, and the holiday spirit will confine me to bed…
What stops me from writing in my new notebook? Fear. Fear that whatever I scribble in it will be so much less than I hope it to be, that my writing cannot convey my emotions and thoughts, at least not to their true extent, that after writing, I shall realize that the blank page looked so much better than the scribbled one. I fear to profane the virgin paper.
Alas, trying to be a writer isn’t easy!
But then I know from experience that once I start writing good things begin to happen, sooner or later. I may have to erase or tear off some pages, but then I’ll find a meaning, a theme, a rhythm worth pursuing. And then I write, and I write some more, and tranquillity ensues, and worry fades from my woeful mind, and if I have a cup of tea nearby, and some raindrops begin to kiss my windowpane as well, then I will cry…
‘Joy and jubilation! This is paradise!’
Are you afraid to write too, at least sometimes?