I always, without exception, hate starting new posts. I always get a clutch of fear in my chest that doesn't let go till I get to paragraph three.
It's this weight that just sits on my chest, pushing down on my heart and mind, stiffing and constricting. Yet only at the beginning. As soon as I round the bend and get into the meat of the writing the weight disappears. It slithers off to its corner where it lays in wait.
I've tried to get rid of this demon - hell - this is me trying again. It's my hope that I'll be able to write the demon away, adding words together to knit a shield and stave off its advances. Yet it doesn't work.
It never works. I can't write away a fear that thrives on that very act.
Yet why then is it only in beginnings that the fear arrives. By the time I write my last sentence in triumph and turn to brag to my fear it has long since left. I'm left alone with my triumph, unable to use it as fuel for the next beginning.
As comfort I like to think the fear is necessary to write successfully. It pushes me towards excellence, filtering otherwise lackluster prose. It forces attention to every sentence and word, insuring quality of thought and meaning.
That doesn't mean that I enjoy it. I dread its weight. Doubly so given that I know it's temporary: if I can just make it past the beginning I’ll be fine. Armed with that knowledge I can't help but question its worth. It isn't a pleasant feeling - quite the contrary. Yet it must be of some value. Right?
I have tried to fathom its worth and what I've thought is what has been written above. I know not its truth. I merely try to accommodate it as it accommodates me.