The other night Tom asked me what I would do if I wasn’t afraid.  To be honest, I can’t imagine existing without having a certain level of fear.  Fear and anxiety have been a large part of my life for as long as I can remember. 

I’m scared about my book.  I’m not scared that some people won’t like it.  I fully expect that some or even a lot of people won’t like it.  There is not a single book that every single person likes.  That’s just a fact. 

And that’s okay.

While I would love for my novel to be the shit, I am terrified that it is just shit.

And, even though, a few people have read it and responded positively, they’re also people that know me personally.  I fear that knowing me has caused them to read the book with kind eyes.

I am under no misguided belief that I’m a spectacular writer.  I’m average, at best. 

And that’s okay.

I love writing, and I have vastly improved over the last two years.  The book is the best thing I’ve ever written.  I finished it.  I am so incredibly proud of myself for that. 

While I can’t imagine living without fear, I am learning quite a bit about being afraid and still doing the thing (pretty sure that’s a paraphrase of something Neil Gaiman said).  If I gave into all my fear and anxiety right now, I’d pull the book.  I wouldn’t put it out into the world next week. 

I’m scared and I’m still gonna do the thing.