Do I Fear, Fear Itself? Or Is There More to It?

While going through my email, I saw a slew of emails from my former program advisor at school. She'd forwarded us some information on a contest for a novella.

Now, I've said this millions of times before, but I'm a coward. Yellow livered. Rubber spined. Squeamish.

The fear of rejection for something as sacred as my writing is terrifying. And I know. Okay? I know. Every single one of my professors warned us that we'd face rejection more times than we can count. They guaranteed it. And it's that certainty that cripples me.

Why would I, a girl who for all intents and purposes avoids the very idea of confrontation, submit myself to rejection? It goes against my very character. But the braver, determined side of me is pissed off at my unwillingness. It's losing patience and has started pacing and glaring in my direction.

I get it, Self. I get it. I should fucking woman up (HA!) and face my fears.

Just because failure is certain, doesn't mean I should let fear dictate what I do and don't do.

Besides, I'm at a good place in my life. I really do feel happy. I feel healthy. I feel loved.

Why not attempt a shot at feeling successful?

All right, Self. I'll play. I already know the worst that could happen.