I can feel the inspiration thickening in my veins, making my heart race with the added labor. I see brilliant images, sometimes a dense forest, the air itself tinted with rich greens. Sometimes it’s a vision of an abandoned castle of a by-gone era, suffocating underneath the weight of twisted vines and crumbling before my eyes. Other times it’s people, of nearly any time, place, and social status, talking about everyday things that are fascinating to anyone else. I also hear words, fragments of conversation, imagery that startles me with its perfection. But no matter the setting, the feeling is always the same. Anticipation. Exciting, foot-tapping, nervous anticipation. My fingers itch for a keyboard or even a simple old school pencil.

Most of the time, it happens during a boring lecture during school or lying in bed at night waiting for sleep to overcome. Sometimes a song will hit some deep chord within me that I didn’t know existed. Any time I do not have immediate access to a notebook I seem to get a great idea for the next bestselling piece of literature. And I want to write. But when I am finally able to sit at my computer or pull out a notebook, I look at the white page, and my mind is blank. I can’t recall the vivid images and striking descriptions and conversations I reveled in earlier. It turns into a chore; the plainness of a word processor or 99-cent notebook saps the inspiration. I give up.

Maybe this is why I’ve never actually written for fun past the age of seven. I get frustrated with the menial labor it takes to put my thoughts in a place others can appreciate. I become overwhelmed with the daunting task of actually finishing the story I have started. I don’t think I will ever get my writing to perfection, so I don’t even start. My mind is clogged with the details of writing my English classes have taught me; the 5-paragraph essays, the importance of a constant theme, the perfect formatting and lengths of paragraphs. My writing could always be a little more perfect than it is, and I don’t want to show it off until I’m sure there is not more I can do to better it. I don’t have that kind of energy to actually make my dreams and visions a reality.

Or maybe this is only a small part. It’s easier for me to say that writing takes too much work than to admit the truth: I’m scared. Scared of what others will think. Is it even worth putting myself out there and risking ridicule just for that slim chance that someone may actually enjoy my work and tell me the words of awe and approval I long to hear, that everyone longs to hear? No, I’m scared that I will instead hear, “I just don’t think writing is your thing.” Or that something I said happened to offend someone. Or worse, that my work goes unnoticed and I hear nothing at all.

Ok, I’m not just scared. I’m terrified. But it’s time to put my insecurities behind me. It’s time to see what I’m really made of, time to see what affect I can have on the world, because if I never try the thoughts of what could have been will haunt me. The time for change is now. And I think that I’m finally ready to hear whatever words happen to come my way, and ready to stop letting my life be governed by my fears. I’m ready to live intentionally. I’m ready to share my world with others and breathe life into the forests and castles and people I’ve dreamed up. Even when it’s hard.