Three stories on love, fear, and coming out of the artistic closet

Each morning, I sit at this desk, wanting to write. And invariably, a small terror gets ahold of me. What if it doesn’t work? I prove myself wrong daily, and still, every single time, I sit down with a restless spirit that plots an escape to safer grounds. I often weigh on skipping my commitments, picturing how I’d feel if I didn’t honor them, and the scenario that comes up is horrid. I lived there long enough to know that that is a place I don’t want to revisit. Who sits down with me at the table of creativity? Who hijacks my progress? And what makes stay with it?

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