It makes me anxious to put something out there in the world. I lose control of it. It takes on a life and reality of its own. It is as if I both birth and lose a child. Not to mention the anxiety of having to face people who might find this mindspawn and come knocking on your metaphorical or literal door.
It also worried me that most of my ideas feel like they're not creative at all, just mix ups of stereotypes and ideals. Then a part of me went "Well, isn't that about 98% of creativity anyway?". And I do think I have some thoughts worth writing down, so I'm just going to have to lean into the discomfort and get over the fact that writing is an incredibly narcissistic act. I have spent all of my rational life cultivating a rich inner world, so I might as well share some of it with you.
(Thank you to that friend who told me in your drunken sweary way that I must do this! You know who you are.)
So I might be ranting a lot more here. For now, I'm out. Gotta go paint my nails and go shopping. It's lunchtime and it's still pretty fucking chilly out, so 'twere best done sooner than later. I'll be back...
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