Fear has found me once again. As I forward copies of my treasured ‘Fate’ for reviews, I realize that I’m afraid. “Why?” I ask. I know the story is good, I am reassured at every pass how good it is. I speak of my shortcomings without the intent of easing my insecurities, I only need to express my feelings, to lay them out, to tell myself that I am the same person I was before my publisher told me he wanted to print my book.
I relish the emotion, the feelings I had, but as overjoyed as my feelings are, they are undermined by my insecurities stemmed from a life-time of feeling that ‘I’m not good enough’. These are but demons hiding in the id, surfacing long enough to reassure me that I am as human today as I was yesterday; reassuring me that I am still awed by the fact that someone read my imaginings and thought it was good enough to invest their time, effort, and money to produce.
As nerve-wracking as the insecurities are, I welcome them without embracing them. I know that there will be people that don’t like what I write, and that’s okay, because, regardless of how many hate it, there is that one person that thought it was worth it, and that is a wonderful feeling-even if it’s only one person, one fellow writer made my life awesome, right here, right now, my life is awesome-because of one person.
But it’s the people who have faith in a story they’ve never read. Who’ll read the story just because I wrote it, who make my life amazing. Even if they hate the story, the fact that they are as excited as I am about being published-though I really hope they like it-it is enough.