Before I write this one, I'd like to say that I'm hopefully not just writing these posts for my own enjoyment. I'm hoping people are reading them and getting something out of them. Please let me know so I can stop worrying that they are falling into the web ravines. Either the email guillottara@gmail.com or the one on this site will get to me. 

Now. This one's personal so either take it or leave it.

Ever since as a fifth grader I created a play out of a Nancy Drew novel, I've wanted to be a writer. Maybe because I'm such an avid reader and cherish a good writer. I wrote prose and poetry all through high school and college, both contributing to and being published by my schools' literary journals. Maybe that early succes went to my head. 

Over these first two weeks of retirement, I've starting working on making my dream a reality. I've researched online literary magazines, read author's newsletters, devoured writing magazines, culled through upcoming writing contests, noted possible story subjects, made lists for possibilities for short fiction, flash fiction, novel length, essay, and literary non-fiction, and resurrected a couple of unpublished works to polish up. I've even looked into online writing courses to get my muse moving. Writing courses are expensive. It seems ludicrous at this juncture to spend $495 on a six week Zoom course on writing short stories. 

I need to take the next step. But there are two hard stops. 

The first is that I have what I hope will be named a basal cell carcinoma growing on my upper lip. It is hideous. I sometimes wonder if it is trying for its own zip code. Having it removed is not as simple as it sounds. I know from experience (a previous basal cell on my ear) that I will be required to have no nicotine in my system for at least four weeks prior to surgery. 

With my resident facial deformity, I won't visit writing groups to get critiques and feed my muse. Most of the literary journals I could submit to require a bio and head shot when you submit. Imagine their disgust when the globular adjunct to my face is more interesting than my submission. 

The last time it took Prozac, Wellbutrin, tears, lots of lost sleep, some sweating, pacing, yelling at the walls, breaking a few things, and gobs and gobs and GOBS of prayer and many both good and bad conversations between God and I. It didn't stick. About three months after surgery I bought a pack of cigarettes. 

I don't know if I can do it again.

And then there's the second hard stop. Fear. Abject, unadulterated, mind freezing fear that I'm just not good enough. Fear that I have been kidding myself for nigh on 60 years about my ability to write. Fear that I will never really be able to say I'm an author. (The How To Write articles all say to tell people you're an author if you write, whether publised or not. I don't buy it.)

It's really hard to let go of a dream. It's even harder to live up to it. I have to decide which one I'm going to do.