“Write? Braawwwk…there’s no money in that, you know.”
“You won’t find an agent.”
“You’ll never be…brawk…published.”
“Sure, Mimmsy dear, don’t we all want to write? Trouble is not too many of us are any good at it.”
When they were finished explaining why writing could never work out for a chicken, the hens cocked their heads and looked at Chicken Mimm. Naturally they were sympathetic. Every Chicken has big dreams. But no one knew the world outside of the coop. Chicken Mimm would be better off if she just forgot about writing. She’d be better off doing what she’d done all her life: waking up, preening her feathers and then running into the yard to wait for Mrs. Lubbick and her bucket of feed. After all, she was a chicken, wasn’t she?
I’m one of those people who always write. I have a bookshelf of journals I began when I moved to California in 1980 and somewhere in Pennsylvania are the notebooks of childhood.
But I don’t think my heart considers writing a practical option. Writing flirts with me and I flirt right back but I’m beginning to wonder when we are going to have a serious relationship.
Oh, it’s not writing’s fault. It’s me. I have – ahem – issues. Commitment issues. Bravery issues. I mean, what if I’m actually good at this? What happens if I actually succeed?
I wonder how often the dreaded Fear of Success keeps people from their dreams?
I’ve been spending time organizing files. I discovered unfinished and forgotten personal essays, short stories, a few poems and one or two ideas for children’s books – all tucked away in the dark recesses of my hard drive. Guess what? I liked them. They were rough but a bit of polish…yep, they were good. More importantly, they reminded me why I write.
Because I have to.
Mrs. Lubbick? This chicken’s bustin’ outta her coop.