What scares me the most? The fear of the unknown, of dying alone, and public speaking. Pick the chair in the back row, try to blend in with the wall or floor, pray to not be called on. The paralyzing fear when you’re out to lunch with fellow writers and the outgoing one of the group enthusiastically decides it’d be a great idea to go around the table and have everyone introduce themselves and talk about their writing. Blend in. Gain invisibility powers. Luckily, not the first up. Unluckily, not going first, and listening to the seasoned writers, somehow makes me feel even more inadequate. One gentleman, a war veteran, writes historical nonfiction. It sounds important. I’m able to gather little else with the throbbing pulse in my ears. I’m not even sure in what genre I want to write yet. My greatest accomplishment at that point was raising a 3 year old little boy.
When my turn finally arrives, something that sounds similar to a frog croaking escapes my mouth, and I say, “I don’t talk.” You know that fear of opening your mouth and something so profoundly stupid comes out? Yeah, that was me in that moment.
Lily pad floating
on a pond in the springtime
frog catches a fly.
– Haibun Monday. Write about fear.