Monsters under the bed
I drove my parents crazy by keeping stuff, all sorts of things, under my bed to keep the monsters away. On top of my bed, existed an army of well-seasoned stuffed animal protectors. When the parental edict came down to clean it out (which happened regularly), I would drag my feet until my mother threaten a leaf blower and a rake. Then, every night, I would take a flying leap into my bed (after all, the monsters couldn’t grab my ankles if I was in the air), until the space was full again. The jumping on to the bed would, of course, get me in trouble.
The UFO’s? I, being well versed in the world of science fiction, knew that THEY were out there and would probably take me away. (Now? I could use the vacation.)
As a ‘grown-up’, my fears are much more complicated. I fear showing my true self (the entire paradoxical package). I fear lack of employment (no money=no living essentials). I fear my writing not being accepted (stupid, because it’s already been disproven, but everyone could change their minds). AND, I still am convinced something will grab my ankles if I don’t leave stuff under my bed.
Fear is said to be the opposite of faith, love, courage, confidence and happiness. Fear cannot exist with out its opposites. One can not exist without the other. Otherwise, how would be know happiness, love, etc. Balances must exist.
In our writing life when fear gets out of hand, with nothing to balance it out, our creativity suffers. More than that, we can become mired in untruths birthed by fear.
Yes, there are plenty of things to fear. Even more exists to combat our fears.
Writing has become that moment of ‘air’ I achieve before landing on my bed. A thrill exists for the safe landing and the avoidance of monster appendages. In that space between, worlds are born and destroyed. Stories are illuminated. The push of fear lets me take chances, see other points of view, and make a grab at something better.
In the end, fear is a necessary spice, to be used sparingly for optimal results.