Fear.

Fear.

Anything I’ve ever done that ultimately was worthwhile… initially scared me to death.  ~Betty Bender

I started writing stories when I was little.  I think it grew out of the fact that my father liked to make-up bedtime stories for me and my siblings when we were younger.  I have a distinct memory of a story called The Bear that I wrote when I was nine years old.  It was three pages long, in my terrible handwriting, and I was so proud of it.

I continued writing, mostly poetry, in my teens. What teen doesn’t write angsty poetry?

And then at nineteen, I wrote a play.

Somewhere between nineteen and twenty, I started to believe the lesser angels in my life that I couldn’t write.  It’s one of those little voices that slowly blossom into raging torrents in your mind.  And then, I didn’t write.  I couldn’t finish a story for anything.

And I gave up because I was afraid.

Two things I have always hated…giving up and fear.

About two years ago, I decided to just write a stupid story for fun, and I finished it.  I actually finished it.  Then I had this crazy dream that wouldn’t get out of my mind, and I turned it into a NaNoWriMo story, which I then edited into Ivy.

The thing about fear is that it’s a healthy thing to have, but not a healthy thing to give in to.  At some point, you have to find a way to push beyond the terrifying voices that love to tell you something cannot be done.