Fear of failure, or fear of success... crap! Well, this is true if I think about it. I worry that my work won't be accepted in the journals I want to be in, and then when something *does* work out, I'm fearful that those who know me might wonder about the poem.
I remember when my first chapbook was due to be published, and I was working with the publisher, proofing and find-tuning, I got fixed on one poem. I worried that my family might take objection to it, because it was probably totally obvious who it was about, when in fact I'd gotten the idea from that person, but took off from there into a slightly fictitious direction. True, I did steal real bits and pieces from two family members--character traits, dress, and a dog--but I ran with the details. I had fun doing the poem, and it was published in a couple of places, but I got cold feet and asked the publisher to replace it with another poem.
Three years later my second chapbook was due to be published, and that poem was once again in the collection. This time I just left it, and didn't have quite the panic attack I had the first time. And, nothing was said from any of the family I expected to hear from. Well, I didn't name names, so...
There's that kind of fear. Any big success carries with it a responsibility, and that can make one fearful. Will I be able to pull this off again? What will people start to expect from me in the future? That kind of thing. Truthfully, I'd really like to be in that position right now!
---> To the Universe At Large: I wish to publish my full manuscript within the coming year. By a known and respected publisher~ Please.
I had good experiences with my chapbooks, but am now wanting to go for the full glossy book at this point. Vanity? Somewhat. Recognition? Yes. Proof of self-ability? Uh huh.
But, right now I'm really not doing much at all with my poetry, either with submissions, reconfiguring the book mss, or, well, writing. Okay, that last bit isn't true at all. I *am* writing almost daily now. I have written, for good or for worse, 22 poems this month. (Poem-A-Day) I've written on this blog, and in my leather journal. That's better than before.
Okay, I don't see yet that this could stem from childhood, at least not in the way mentioned. My grandparents, whom I lived with mostly, always nurtured the arts, coming from that background themselves. No one acted hurt by my interests, except for when those interests took precedence over some other things I needed to get done, like other school work.
Feeling guilty? Yes, that hits the nail on the head. "Setting impossible goals creates enormous fear, which creates procrastination (uh huh), which we wrongly call laziness." Um. Okay.
"Use love for your artist to cure its fear."
Renaming 'discipline' as 'play.'
Creative Work = Joy + Play.
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So, on I read. And think. And now for today's poetic prompt: