In the last week, I have been wrestling with the fact that I am not fearless enough with my writing. Too often, I find myself holding back, restrained by a wicked self-criticism that pops up like the literary villain that won't die. Ideas pop into my head in seconds and are just as quickly squashed into nothingness. Like the proverbial devil on my shoulder, the self-criticism hides beneath my keyboard and follows my fingers, taunting my attempts. The most dangerous thought the criticism devil whispers into my ear is that I have nothing of importance to say. Who do I think I am? I haven't been anywhere, seen anything. I'm tempted to wait for wisdom to knock on the door but I know that wisdom won't find me that way. I want my writing to soar, to inspire, to uncover layers, to stretch the boundaries inside of me and inside others.
But then I find that all I really want to capture right now is the drama of cloud and light playing out on the pavement against the backdrop of a chiaroscuro sky. That's all. And that's everything.