Falling Back with Falling Up

Off the heels of a mini-meltdown, I trip onto the page and fall into the poem. Strangely enough, it’s just what I need after this week. Not all of Shel Silverstein holds up for me at twenty-three. But the combination of a bottle of sake, a snoring dog warming my feet, and an endless stream of childhood poetry makes me feel a little better.

Couple days ago, I’d written a short story I was insecure about and shared it with both my mother and one of my best friends. I made the mistake of insisting they tell me how they really feel about it, and though what they were only giving me were constructive edits, all I could hear was that it wasn’t good enough, that I wasn’t good enough.

Next day, on the subway, headed to class, it hit me that I knew 100% that I wanted to be a writer. And that if it doesn’t work out for me, I’ll have absolutely nothing to fall back on. I have no other skill sets. If I fail at writing, there’ll be nothing left. For some reason, that felt like a profound realization and I had to hide my face behind a bulky textbook because I could feel my eyes heating up.

Luckily, only a couple hours later, struggling to tamp down on my panic, some guys in the office unknowingly talked me off a ledge. The fear of failure is still very much here, but it’s no longer crippling. I can walk around, I can breathe, I can hope for success and stumble towards it.

 

Not sure what it says about me that childhood poetry has helped me this week, made me feel less weak, but gonna just accept the perks of immaturity and push on.

All the best,

~Amanda