For about 22 years now, my mother has been pestering me to write. In 1990, she told me she didn’t really like the story I wrote in kindergarten called “The Ball.” The ball goes up. The ball goes down. You get the gist. She said I could do better.
A couple of years later I wrote a novel in a red notebook about a pack of Alaskan huskies. What did a girl from Tampa know about Alaskan huskies? Beats me. Nevertheless, the story appeased my mother for a few months….
But like a good Jewish mother (minus the accent, overfeeding and Jewishness) mom has always had the tendency to endlessly care-take and boundlessly self-sacrifice while always making me feel a teensy bit guilty for not [fill in the blank.] She does this because she is a good mother. And because she can not help herself.
The real reason I don’t write is because everything that sounds awesome when I type it, sounds perfectly stupid when I read it a week later. It’s fear. I’ve lost the ability to write with without it. What happened to the girl who didn’t give a damn she’d never seen an Alaskan husky before? Write about them! Who cares!
I’ll give it a go.