I make all these plans, buy all the notebooks and journals, have all of these ideas that I cannot wait to get out. All of these plans to write, but they’re only just that. Plans. I am afraid to write. I am afraid I’m not good at it. How could I love reading other people’s words and not at least give it a try? I become paralyzed by the thought of being AWFUL at it. It’s probably my worst fear. Meanwhile, time is just passing me by. I’m so good at telling people to go after what they desire, to follow their passions. And here I am suffocated by my negative self-talk.
Knowing is half the battle, right? I’m working on it. :-/