I know there are a lot of scary things that I routinely avoid doing–venturing into the crawl space under my house, for example (I’ve only been down there one time, in the dead of winter, when there weren’t even many living things creeping around under there, and I doubt I’ll ever go back), and though I was a fan of the old horror movies from when I was a kid (Frankenstein, Dracula, The Creature from the Black Lagoon, etc.), I’m fairly unlikely to venture into a theater to watch very many of today’s films in that genre. There are a few medical procedures that terrify me, and I’m hopeful not many are in my future. But these things aren’t really the most scary stuff in my life.
The truth is that what I’m doing right now, or rather, what I’ll be doing in a short while, when I finally press the “Publish” button for this post–that act of putting my words and myself out there for anyone to read is still one of the most intimidating things I do. This fear isn’t limited to just the act of putting written words into public view, but it also includes musical performance (I’ve been a musician most of my life), public speaking (I’m a retired pastor who still preaches occasionally), attempting to sell things that I have made in the wood shop, or almost any other creative or artistic pursuit.
When I’ve served on boards or committees, I’m very often the last person to weigh in with an opinion or a suggestion, for fear that what I have to say is irrelevant, or may reveal that I haven’t really understood the discussion, and sometimes I choose to remain silent, even when I do think I might have a salient point to make, because I don’t think quickly enough on my feet to put together much beyond an awkward response before the discussion has moved on to the next thing. (Later on, I often indulge, mentally, in a few rounds of “here is what I should have said.”)
Call it stage fright, or a case of the “imposter syndrome,” or simply a colossal lack of confidence, it boils down to about the same thing–I am hesitant to put myself or my creative work forward because of a variety of fears: I’m not good enough at this. This work is amateurish and stupid–what in the world was I thinking? Someone’s going to see (or hear) this and realize that I’m basically a fraud, or a pathetic wanna-be. I have surely overestimated my own skills in this work, and I don’t know if I can handle the embarrassment when people realize this, etc.
As someone who has done as much writing as I have, performed as much music as I have, preached as many sermons as I have, been in as many public speaking situations as I have, made and sold as many wooden items as I have, you’d think that by now I’d have overcome most of these fears, but no–I manage them, but I haven’t shed the anxiety and trepidation that accompanies the act of pressing the “publish” button, or strapping on the guitar on some stage, or stepping to the pulpit in front of a congregation, or presenting a client with the bit of furniture I have made for them.
Some artists and creatives may say that the “butterflies” or anxious fears one feels in those moments are actually a good thing, that they help us do our best work, keep us on our toes, so to speak, and that everybody has them. I’m not sure I buy all of that, but what I do think the fear does is to remind me that this stuff is the stuff I care enough about to want to do it well, and maybe that keeps me from taking for granted the opportunities that I have to do this kind of work.
These fears, even though they are nearly always present, don’t always succeed in preventing me from trying anyway. After all, you’re reading this right now, eh?
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(Posted in response to 1/31/2024 prompt.)
doug heacock: words 