Risks

At one time, I had a relative tell me I needed to take more risks. It’s true I am a careful person. I wear my seatbelt, wash my hands constantly, use hand sanitizer, drive the speed limit, wash all the surfaces in my house with Clorox wipes, at least once a week, look both ways when I cross the street, wear the brightest clothes in my closet on my walk in which I, also, carry a can of mace. I lock my doors, I have virus protection, insurance. I don’t fly, speak in public, hang-glide, jump out of perfectly good planes, ‘cause you’re not going to get me in it anyway. I don’t gamble, get on ladders, mix chemicals, do wiring. (If you knew me, you would not want me to.)

Actually, I’m an obsessive-compulsive coward (This all made more so with the MPGN, ensuing prednisone treatment compromising my natural immunity, the flu scare of last year with the difficulty in getting the shots and the newfound vulnerability I now feel, in spades.) and I’m okay with that. Really, I am. But don’t tell me I don’t take risks. I risk every day. I risk my heart, my confidence, and who I am. I do sorties into hostile territories, every single day. I know, from the get-go, I’m going to be under fire, likely shot down, wounded and…and every once in a while…saved. Don’t tell me I need to take more risks. I write. I risk everything. Does that sound dramatic? It is, I suppose, but other writer’s know exactly what I’m talking about.

Writers hear it, it’s the common vernacular: Open a vein, sweat blood, tie your butt to the chair. Sounds a bit violent, doesn’t it? Non-writers wonder why the hell we do it. Every writer I know wonders, too, on those bad days, but the writers that stick with it know, without any doubt or reservation, it is worth it.

It is worth it!