Nigga, Could You PLEASE Get Out Your Own Way :: Fear And The Personal Blog

Insecurity can be a funny feeling for anybody, I suppose.

 

I have been immensely blessed, lucky, fortunate(whichever works best for you) to have watched from an intimate space the vicissitudes of highly talented contemporaries. Each with their own need for validation. The more subjective the talent, the more honors and prizes need to be tangible or given by those of lofty acclaim. The more competitive the arena of talent, the more its gravitas, its weight in seriousness is measured in sacrifices. The proverbial blood, sweat, and tears only matter if they were packaged and stamped approvingly by those we honor. Our hard work as craftspersons only mean much when the merit doubles as down payment on new cars.

 

I chased numbers with a drug addict who had not scored in day’s conviction. My internal complaints ravished my confidence in my writing. My most honed talent, that ability to make my personality speak through abstract symbols like a skilled rapper making their pain ride a beat, my voice was tossed aside by fear.

 

I attempt to be easy on my Self because this is what creative types do. We hone these magical powers into disciplines that forge awe and amaze others. We trade our talents for a belief that burying them would cause us more pain than the embarrassment of a saturated market. It is only fair that I wish my words be effective. That they be more than another set of one’s and zero’s laying dormant in hypertext hell waiting on some internet citizen to view them.

 

And yet, what happens to my voice, traded in as discount on a new lifestyle? What occurs to souls addicted to audience and applause?

 

I refuse to represent anyone but my own Self. There is usually an overly censorious angel pulling my hand from the keyboard. And tugging on the other is a demon whispering about scandal, popularity, and salaciousness of content for hits and views. I will admit that I often borrow notes from demons set on pushing my pen along the more superficial interests, surface topics, and sordid celebrity intrigues. Other times I am more engaged by angelic hosts with grammatical concerns and image worries.

 

Creative types with piles of calendars marking their dances with muses and under the table deals with devils have an intriguing problem. We are trained to view life through eyes that do not exist. We make our living trading with those that cannot afford our talents. We sit in labs mixing cliche and originality, some impossible admixture akin to conceptions of oil and water. Even when our end goals are not folded paper or digits added to bank account screens.

 

It is very to easy to allow our fears of failure or ineffectiveness to stand in the way of creation. To forget our purposes; to forget how it felt before you built what they came for; to forget that younger you so intrigued by the ability to create that you did create without standing in your own way. Regardless of invisible spooks and ghastly daemons we conjure as excuses for procrastination, we are our only writer’s block. We are the hand holding back the stylus or pencil(for you truly talented types) from drawing. We are what stands in our own way.

 

So, I leave this piece with this: whatever it is, whatever the root of the fear is, I have decided to stamp it out. I owe that guy sleeping on his keyboard in a library at my alma mater because it was his only pillow. I owe him for carving out a future with words and designs, leaving a sculpture that I can only describe as adorable. No matter how comfortable I have become, and no matter how fearful failure feels now, I never forget who started this mission. Mowing my way to today took a courage and vision worthy of my standing to the side and allowing me my greatness, as they say.