Couch Time

I recently found a great little magazine called, The Sun. It contains no advertisements, just short stories from authors, muses by readers, letters, poems, quotes and one excerpt from a novel per issue. It's beautiful and real and I can't wait to submit something, someday.

I realized, to my dismay, that reading work by authors who are alive today, fills me with a bit of anxiety. I feel pressured by time to write something worthwhile, myself. Or to be worthwhile, myself. It almost cuts off my airways and I believe the only remedy is to dive in and read as much as I can. My biggest fear is that I will find nothing but superiors and that I, myself, will shrink into nothingness. But, why should I fear that? Even that would be a first for me... Nothingness, might be what I need. Either way, I need to face this fear. I am a writer. That is what I am. I can be good, or I can be mediocre, but I have made up my mind to be a writer and it is time to pursue it, come what may.

I'm scared.