whoosh

*blows dust off*

*there is a lot of it*

Why does restarting this blog scare the crap out of me?

I've almost pulled this thing back into the light a hundred times in the past year. And then the little chattery self-editor starts up. My inner critic likes tea and conversation. She sips with self-assurance and says, "I'm sorry, wait, does this mean you started being able to do things on a regular schedule?" And, "So who do you think actually wants to hear what you have to say?"

I'm over it. Well, I'm not over it, but I'm OVER it.

In recent months I've spent a fair few sleepless nights uselessly wringing my hands over the civil rights' atrocities in Ferguson and elsewhere in the U.S. and the world; ISIS or ISIL or whatever the hell the beheading bastards are calling themselves; Ebola; Syria; the Ukraine; climate change; rape culture; the politicized & misogynist SCOTUS; and all the other tragedies & catastrophes taking place on small and large scales that call themselves to my notice. I have perhaps an excess of empathy (apparently making up for more than one Republican congressperson).

I lived in fear of the future. Then I realized that the future will remain scary and out-of-control regardless. The only thing I can control is my response to it.

So I've started doing things that are, for me, brave. Going back to grad school to push evolution in my writing skills for a career in the only work I've ever really cared about. Submitting poems and manuscripts for publication, and continuing to do so even as the rejection letters soar into my inbox. Tweeting without rewriting it 18 dozen times. Expressing my opinions adamantly instead of pacifically. Facing my parenting flaws as problems that can be solved instead of horrible deficiencies I can't help but enact.

None of this is going to change the world, perhaps. It's certainly not the kind of bravery that warrants medals or rescues someone from an oncoming train or keeps jellyfish from taking over the oceans.

But it's changing my world. So whether or not I post on a regular schedule (hint: not), and whether or not anyone remotely gives a shit, I'm coming back to blogging. Good news: for the most part, I'll be thinking about the craft of writing - especially poetry - and offering brief critiques on what I'm reading. And seriously, y'all, I have been reading some amazing books lately, so it should be fun.

Why is it the more I care about something, the more it scares the living shit out of me? How do you deal with fears of failing at things that are desperately important to you? 'Cause I'll tell you honestly, I could use some help here.