After the Silence – Part 8

In the quiet moments, between my family going to bed and me joining them, I am left with only myself.

I don’t mind my own company: truth be told I tend to prefer it.

This time is when the work is done.  It is there, when the only sound are the thoughts which keep me company, that I see who and what I am.

You can’t hide from yourself when you’re pinned between keyboard and the hounds of your own expectations and desires which are ever at your back.

I sit, empty page in front of me, and I worry.

I worry about things that are pretty common in those times.  They are the same fear all authors share: Am I enough?  Am I good enough, am I smart enough, am I clever enough, am I determined enough?

Those are things I have talked about before.  They are the demons whom you must tame and force to work for you if you’re ever to achieve success.

No, what keeps me up at night, what makes the words fail to appear, is a new foe.  It is no demon.  It is no unwelcome guest, nor is it something that I consider anything other than a blessing.

I am afraid of my success.

I am afraid that my new job, which has promoted me already and is threatening to pay me even more money than I’ve ever made after less than a month, will be the death of my career.

I fear that when life is no longer pushing me around, when I am no longer bullied by the daily threats of a shoe-string existence, I will lose my ability to write.

I started my writing career in 2016.  During that time, I have lost more than I ever thought possible.  My grandparents, my mother, too many jobs to count, and the love and respect of people I wanted to grow old with.  Loss and pain have been constants, with only scattered sunshine to remind me of what life is like for those who are not burdened so.

Who am I without the struggle?  Can I still come here and write my soul for all the world to see if I am no longer constantly exposed by my traumas?  Will I still be able to squeeze my blood into the space between words if all my cuts are healed?

I stare at the screen, blank and inviting, as empty and cold as the vacuum of space, and I worry that one day I will no longer see the vivid outlines of the stories which I find there.

I worry, because I fear that one day success will rob me of the fantasies which are both friend and mentor, and I will have welcomed my destroyer with open arms.

I will write until I cannot, but I could never have expected the most terrifying demon of all would be the lack of them.

After the Silence – Part 8

It wasn’t me who deleted the story, it was the one-armed man!

The Unsheathed Quill