On Fear

When I was young I made the Powers-That-Be turn on the lights inside the Haunted Mansion.

I know.  Cool, right?

Except it was my terror that made them do it.  Memory is faulty, and I was very, very, very young, so I don't remember much about it.  Here is what I can recall:

Sitting on someone's shoulders (my mind says my Grandpa's?  But that seems crazy....So maybe an uncle?) as we walked from the elevator to the Doom Buggies, clutching at his forehead in horror as I sobbed, "Turn on the lights!  Make them turn on the lights!" over and over and over again until suddenly the lights flickered on.  I remember my Grandpa saying, "Looks like you're in luck."  And I remember the relief.  That's it. I don't know if we all left the Haunted Mansion or if it was just a parent and me.

Just terror, searching for something to ground me to reality (in this case the feel of skin beneath my fingertips), and then relief.

A few years later I made them stop Star Tours mid-ride.  It was the same sort of thing, although this time just my mom and I left the ride, and I definitely recall that walk back to meet up with the rest of the family.

We've all been there, guys.  Don't deny it  (Love you, Mama!) 

I'm not bragging at the power I apparently hold over Disney ride operators.  (Not much, I mean.)  No, my point is this:  My fear is big, and loud, and demands to be heard.

Now, I have mixed feelings about fear.  I mean, if you look over the history of our species, fear has been a good thing.  Fear keeps you from stepping too close to the edge of a high cliff.  Fear redirects your steps when you hear a roar from out in the darkness, assuredly saving you from ending up in the belly of some great beast.

Or, if you're a small girl with a vivid imagination...

And impeccable fashion sense, clearly.

...Who has against her better judgement entered a Haunted Mansion, been herded into a secret elevator and then told - essentially - the only way out is to follow the choice of a hanging skeleton...

...Been plunged into a darkness filled by screaming people...

...And then suddenly finds herself in a dark hallway with pictures that only prove the house is, indeed, haunted...

It's waaaaay scarier with the lights out, folks.

Well...Fear steps up to the plate.  Fear reminds you there are GHOSTS INSIDE.

Fear is there to warn you when something may hurt you.

There are many who will tell you that fear is a liar.  I disagree.  I just think fear is really good at its job.  Seriously, Employee of the Month, time after time after time.  And let's be very real here - fear is good at its job because there is no way to be a human being and not be hurt.

One of my favorite quotes from Welcome to Night Vale

Fear has had a lot of practice.  Fear has been hardwired into our DNA as surely as joy, sorrow, delight, or anger have.  Fear may go even deeper, existing on the same level as thirst, hunger, the need to breathe.  Personally, I believe those who say they have no fear are either lying or foolish - or both.


Fear is not the voice to be shut up and ignored!  Fear is that friend who has your best interests at heart but just never quite hits the mark.  You know the one.  Maybe the Christmas gift is never right, but is given with a good spirit.

Maybe words are awkwardly phrased and the hug too tight/loose/long/whatever - but you can tell the intention is there.

Fear isn't out to get us, it's out to help us.  So instead of ignoring its voice, we instead need to turn and face it and say, "I hear you, fear, and you're not in charge here."

Boom.

That's it.  It is as simple and as difficult as that.

So whether I'm walking the sinister hallway toward the Doom Buggies and am feeling that familiar lick of terror along my spine (every time, guys), or I'm finally telling people that yeah, my agent has put the pitch out to a few editors and some have asked to read the complete manuscript - fear doesn't get to keep me from doing something I know is good.

Remember that time I said guilt could hand me the roadmap but didn't get to come along for the ride?  (No?  Let's change that.  Check it out here.)   It's kind of like that, except that fear has a seat in the car.  The backseat...and fear is an avid backseat driver.

Ideally fear will be passed out, though...just sleeping the drive away.

I just don't have to follow its direction.

Another winner from WTNV

Fear and Worth: An Update

I know this update is overdue.  Really.  And I'm sorry its taken so long to post.  The thing is, it's taken a long time to sift through the chaos that is my brain as of late.

Seriously.  Chaos.  

I've been processing a lot of new stuff, and - in case there was ever any doubt - it all circles back to my writing.

The other day I was making some guacamole at work and was imagining out what I would say if I were speaking to a group about writing.  (Incidentally, this is not just vain daydreaming, folks: Doxacon.   August 2017. Washington, D.C.  Be there.)  I kept coming back to the idea of talents, specifically the biblical parable of The Talents.

For those who are unfamiliar, there is, in the Bible, a story Jesus tells about servants who were given talents (a type of money).  Those who invested and used the talents were rewarded, while the poor sap who was so afraid of losing it he buried it in the ground was definitely not rewarded.  He was cast out into a place of weeping and gnashing of teeth.  Just a quick side note here.  At the time this parable was told, weeping and gnashing of teeth were expressions of grief.  As with anything biblical, there's a plethora of ways to interpret this story, but the most straightforward seems to be this:

We are given talents.  If we use the talents we are further blessed.  If we hide our talents we become grief stricken.  

I am a writer.  Writing is one of my talents.  It always has been.  In elementary school I crafted stories out of those, "write a sentence for each spelling word" assignments.  In high school I could certainly write essays well, but the creative writing was where I excelled.  And I have always, somehow, known that someday my words would be in print.  Back when Border's bookstores were still around I used to go and find exactly where my book would sit on the shelf.  It was my sacred ritual.  I couldn't leave the store without at least visiting my books' future home.  Even now, in the jumbo makeup store that has since taken its place, my eyes flick to that spot on the wall as I enter.  

My identity as "a writer" has always been there, whether I have actively used and invested (in) my talent or have hidden it away, buried deep beneath the surface.

Remember this picture?

Taken right after a rare manicure, apparently.

I posted it a few months ago.  I gave it a silly caption about being nervous to send my work off and said that even though it didn't necessarily count as a submission, it was the first move of a game called, "How Many Times Do I Get To Submit This?"

Well, I have an answer.

One.

One submission.

In a twist I was not even remotely expecting, my first submission resulted in representation.  I went to a conference to meet my tribe and to gain some guidance from a real, live agent as to how I should go about taking my next step.

Now, barely three months later, I am googling terms like, "comp titles," and asking my agent - my agent!! - questions that must seem obvious and remedial.  I am telling my friends and family that, oh yeah, we'll start pitching at the end of this month, and will see where things go from there.

What.
Is.
LIFE???

I am so excited - SO EXCITED!!! - I can hardly think straight.  It's difficult to stay in this current moment.  And I am terrified.  Which is why I haven't posted anything about this until now.

#truth

I am afraid.

I am afraid that I'll talk about this most recent update - signing with an agent - and then, poof! it'll disappear.  Deals fall through all the time.  I am afraid this will be one of those.

I am afraid that I have forgotten how to write a book.  The book I've written is the first of a series.  I have to write the rest of it.  And what if somehow I can't?  What if I've forgotten what it takes to put one word after another after another after another...?  What if I only had one book in me?

I am afraid to put myself out there.  In writing one must be real, must be true.  Even in fiction.  Especially in fiction.  I am afraid to show people my insides and have them find me wanting.

Which leads me to my main fear, the one that drives the others:  I am afraid I am not worthy.  I am afraid that there's been some crazy mistake.  I wonder, Who am I to be so presumptuous as to assume that my work is good enough?  

BUT CLEARLY IT IS.

I'm shocked that someone believes in this story enough to help it get published.

BUT CLEARLY THEY DO.

I'm just Steph, standing here, holding this freaky, little story - and it is a freaky, little story.  But I am also a writer.  And it is time for me to uncover my talent, and to take that risk of using and investing it.  Who knows how long this ride will be?  I certainly don't.  But I promise now that I will ride it out.  I will keep sifting and processing and facing those fears.  And though I and my words are works in progress, we'll get there someday.

Taking a page from Stuart Smalley's book now.

Current goal.

A Teller of Tales

In a world without morals I would be a con artist.  I have come to this realization slowly - over a few months, really - and have very mixed feelings about it.  (Probably because I do live in a world with morals.)  It's so intriguing to me, and yet so very, inherently wrong.  I take some comfort in the knowledge that I wouldn't con people out of necessity, or addiction (as there are people addicted to the con out there).  It wouldn't be because of the rush I would get from selling the con.  It would be for the simple joy of telling the story.  It's an intense story, when you think about it, and demands plenty of detail and attention, yet for obvious reasons must be simple and vague.  Yes, the life of the con has always fascinated me.  Maybe that's why I love storytelling.

I took a storytelling class in college.  It was the easiest class I had, although my professor told me straight up that I was the best storyteller in his class - the storyteller with the most promise, the most knowledge of fairy tales - and because of this he would grade me on an entirely different scale than the rest of the class.  I gave a non-committal sort of nod, tried to wipe the confused, yet frustrated expression off my face, and found my revenge in doing spirited impressions of him for my classmates.  (Well, that and acting out the piano-playing scene from Big in the middle of class.  I was horrible, really.)  Two of  my roommates were also in the storytelling class that quarter, although they had the other section, and while they weren't too stoked on the assignments I was.  The textbook we had on using stories in the classroom and using tales as tools was strangely interesting to me.  And although I had little respect for the teacher - despite the fact that he handed me plenty of compliments with my sub par grading and asked me to tell a tandem story with him (yeah, I know I have some brown on my nose) - I did, and do, have great respect for storytelling. 

When I was telling a story it took my entire focus.  I wasn't up there putting on a show for my classmates.  I wasn't wearing a costume, although I did put a lot of thought into how my outfit might best portray some small aspect of my story.  It wasn't a game, although it was very fun.  I had rediscovered a story (one about the "hedgehurst" and another about Brer Rabbit) and needed to handle it in the best way possible so it might reach each listener and hit her in the same place it had hit me: my soul. 

Stories are interesting things.  They are like wild animals that are tamed but never broken.  There's danger in telling stories.  We've all learned that lesson, whether we witnessed, felt, or caused the hurt stories about other people can inflict.  When I approach a new story, whether it is a retelling or an original, it is with a cautious sort of delicacy: How will this story react when I take it in my hands?  When I mold it?  When I retell it?  Many stories demand a certain tenderness throughout.  One rough press and the entire piece crumbles.  Some require tight pressure and a heavy hand when it comes to molding.  Without restraint the story can become too formless or unmanageable, or both.  And once a story has become molded into the correct form it needs to be harnessed.  A runaway story can become a wildfire where it should be a simply a candle. 

I lose myself in stories all the time.  My cousin (in her life of a dreamer blog - go look at it) wrote about how she is constantly creating stories.  Every moment in her life, every passerby becomes caught up in the whirlwind of creation.  I loved this post especially because I do the same thing.  I lose myself in a moment.  It must be disconcerting for the people around me: I am sitting with a child, trying to help him build with blocks, when a character forces herself into my head.  She tries to show me part of her history, whether it is based on my work or totally random, and I am off, following her into Fairyland.  When I come back to the real world, usually only a second or two later, I am struck by an uncomfortable vibe I get from the kid's parent.  I was there in body but absolutely not in spirit.  The body was an animated but empty shell for that second, holding a block suspended for a child to reach and then with a sharp intake of breath and quick blink of the eyes was suddenly refilled.  I have been in the middle of saying something to a friend and will trail off because I am shooting off toward the stars, wondering how the world looks different when seen from above.  A soft, "Steph?" or redirection to the conversation usually brings me right back to Earth and with a shake of the head I get back into it. 

I come by my storytelling honestly.  (At least, I assume it's honest since it so obviously runs in the family.)  And like my cousin I so strongly dream of being a published author.  And while I was definitely inspired in this post by her blog, it also came from my readings on fairy tales and their tellers that I have recently jumped into (well, that and a couple of books about art fraud).  Fairy tales absolutely have their place in my life, and that's where my interest is right now.  So don't be too surprised if I write more about them in the near future.  After all, it's better fairy tales than cons, right?