What would I do if I wasn't afraid?
I write about fear more than I realize. It makes sense - I am scared of more things than I admit to my periphery, and I'd bet most people are, too. We just aren't brave enough to share them out loud. Sometimes we don't even have the bandwidth, time, and resources to be scared (Survival mode, anyone?). My blog was meant to soothe this tangled inner state into an actionable framework for my own clarity.
I came across Phoebe Waller-Bridge's approach to tackling fear. If I'm not mistaken, she applies this question to all her creative blocks, especially those involving making a raw, uncomfortable, or vulnerable decision:
Whenever I get stuck on something, I'm like, 'What would I do if I wasn't afraid? What would I write if I wasn't afraid? What would I say in this situation if I wasn't afraid?'
Fear doesn't block progress. No, it shrinks us into the smallest, safest version of whoever we were going to be. And, to me, the feeling of smallness is worse than a blocked progress. It horrifies me. I cannot think of something more destructive than dwelling in self-pity, fueled by fear of things that haven't even occurred.
These days, I ask myself mid-flinch: What’s the unafraid, brave version of this decision, conversation, or creative block? Last month, it looked like submitting a short piece to a literary magazine, though my brain kept nagging not to (It needs a final edit! The ending is too neat! You're getting rejected!). The unafraid version of this decision wasn't a better draft. It was just hitting submit, mid-flinch, with the one I already have.
I did get the rejection a few weeks later, and it stung exactly as much as my brain promised. Still, I felt a surge of power from trying in the first place. I know it would've stung more if I hadn't tried - a gradual, gnawing pain from having the draft stay small and safe in my drafts folder. What would I do if I wasn't afraid? I will keep writing until I am seen by many, many people.