I don't have a lot to share today. I'm brewing myself up a nice, hot cup of viral cold and I need about a million hours of naps. Jason Isaacs is back on the My Heroes list (I have 4 lists I keep going in my head at all times: My Heroes/Favorite Humans, Not Speaking To, Shit List, and Dead To Me...for a brief period he was on the Shit List, for the last 48 hours he was on my Not Speaking To list, and now--because he's cute and nice and didn't ask for the Y chromosome--he's my favorite again and our break is over.) (OMG, does he even KNOW?! If he were an 8 year old boy in my class, we'd be standing in the hallway having a private chat, and I'd be saying things like: "I love you, but do you understand why I'm so upset right now?" and "What choice do you think you can make next time?" And then he'd have to write an apology letter to me or to whoever.) (I'm actually pretty lenient on my boys; it ain't easy having a Y chromosome.)

Today I'm just lying in bed thinking about how to be more fearless. I was thinking the other day: why DON'T I write more, and send more things out to be published? Is it my thin skin? Or is it laziness (I will confess: I am unable, currently, to reject Lazy when she shows up at my door with a bottle of wine and some new indie movies on DVD). 

Really, what I think I'm most afraid of is success. What if I WERE successful? Oh my god--if I were successful, then I might have to go promote my book (or my whatever I'd written). This could involve interviews. I am terrible at interviews; I haven't even done one for a job in about 17 years, you know. It could involve going to bookstores and interacting with people I don't know, and having to carry on conversations with complete strangers. I am terrible at carrying on conversations with complete strangers (unless we're talking politics, sex, or religion and I am certain I will never ever see you ever again). It might mean I have to go do a press junket of some sort--I'll have to stand, at a podium, and give a speech or whatever about something I'd written. I can't imagine anything worse than standing at a podium in front of XX number of strangers and speaking. Out loud. Just thinking of it (and it's just a pipe dream; the likelihood of it happening is .00000000001%) is making my stomach churn and my fight or flight instinct is in overdrive. 

I totally get why Harper Lee didn't write another book for 55 years and JD Salinger was a recluse.

Because, really, I could deal with the rejections. I could even deal with internet assholes giving their uninformed critiques of whatever I've written. I would be sad and mopey for about 24 hours, and then juuuuust fine. It's the promoting myself and interacting with other human beings I fear the most.

Isn't that so freaking weird? I think that's so freaking weird about me. Because it's not like I have that disorder that makes me afraid to leave my house--I love to get outside. And it's not like I'm even necessarily shy--I can talk to strangers. I just prefer not to, unless I have something important and meaningful to say. And I like a good party...as long as I can have restful peace and quiet for a whole day after. In addition to all of that, hellooo--I'm a teacher. My whole day is about getting up in front of 25 people and singing, dancing, doing the silly voices/accents in stories, etc and so forth. (Maybe this is why I'm so tired all the time.) 

I wish I could figure me out. Do you have me figured out? If you do, would you please, please, please hit the black email button on the upper right hand side of this blog so you can tell me? I will buy you dinner. We can get a couples massage together or something, too. Maybe go see a play or a movie or some live music. 

Here are some photos I'm going to be focusing on, thinking about, this week. You can too, if you want:

Do you? Do you really, Fate? Let's hope so!

C.S. Lewis: optimist.

Oh, how I love dear, sweet, wonderful Mary Oliver.

My Five Year Plan.

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