Some opportunities and thoughts, too.

Just met up with Madeleine, my cousin and soon to be literary editor. I'm still blown away she'd ask me to contribute to her literary magazine. Naturally, not too flattered to take the opportunity seriously.

Having looked over my (other, main) blog, she suggested I write something fun & snarky about how hard it can be trying to write. I can do that. I sell myself shore, I'm sure,--I know I can do that. As I'll prolly mention, I've been known to write thousand word emails explaining to professors explaining why I couldn't write 600 words for the following day.

The irony was rarely lost on them, as you can imagine.


Part of what terrified me, however justifiably or not, then and also about Madeleine's invitation to contribute is just that: the unearthly anxiety and block I can summon at the slightest sign of deadlines or accountability.

Surely, as I've known now for quite a while, I've grown up immeasurably from that panic-stricken man-child I was back then--back in school, where I'd psych myself out so efficiently that I'd stop going to class for months to avoid that terrible albeit sometimes subtle look of disappointment in my professors' eyes when I'd have to explain why my essay still wasn't done.

But even in spite of my progress, I still feel some of that automatic fear, however foolish, unnecessary, and unfounded.

All the same--I think a quick "hoorah!" is in order for recursivity: writing about how hard it is to write what I'm writing as I write it? Potentially delicious.

Hm hm hm, though. I think that as far as this writing project/piece/thing goes, I haven't much more to say--and shan't, likely, until I've had some time to brainstorm (hey, what else is a 30min train ride good for, anyway?).


I will say, though, that some of this nervousness is different. See, I've spent much of my lifetime idolizing and looking up to Madeleine. She's my older cousin and fabulous; how could I not try to impress her? Which was why this was all so shocking and exciting--'you mean I'm actually good enough to "make it" with the cool kids and get invited!?'.

Reading too much into it? Quite probably.

But that's the same pattern of thinking and interpretation in which anxiety germinates so well. Because some of this worry is whether I'm actually good enough for this literary magazine.

Which is silly. She probably wouldn't have asked if there weren't *any* hope. And even so? What's the use in worrying?

Still, it just seems so...grownup and highbrow. And I mean that in the best, most Woolfian way (and for you slackers who refuse to read that brilliant essay in its entirety). Fancy & impressive are some other words I might use to describe it. It's really quite fantastic.

So of course I worry that I won't be up to snuff.


As usual, it seems, I need to turn my attention from worrying and focus instead on writing. Because, as I'm sure will be of some importance to this piece, the trouble is almost always just that: worrying instead of working.

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