This has got to be the hardest thing I’ve ever set out to
do.
I’ve driven across the country with less then $400, a 3
month old baby and an injured shoulder. That was an easy stroll to check the
mail compared to this.
Working two jobs just weeks after having a baby was like
tossing a TV dinner in the microwave when put next to what I’m doing now.
Fighting to join the Air Force was nothing more then a
casual conversation with old friends, while this, this is a life or death
pleading in an unknown language and I don’t even have a phrase book to help me
along.
I’ve battled demons, tackled dragons and nightmares, and
kept my feet when the earth heaved. I’ve overcome plagues, mutilation,
sociopaths and horrors. I’ve fought a battle against an army with only a Shield
of Crone, the Sword of Motherhood, and the Hope of Maiden.
But this, this path I’ve been laid, goes so far beyond that,
my knees bend in awe, my heart trembles with fear such as I’ve never known
before and my mind fights against the knowledge of what must be.
All of that was nothing more then a peaceful fall evening
under an Oak. This, this is hard. This is rushing blind folded and bare footed
across a newly paved six lane highway during LA rush hour. But my babies
welfare sits on the other side.
And what is this? This horrific feat I need to do? This, my
dear friends, is write. And that, believe it or not, is the hardest thing I
will ever have to do.
Why? Because in order to write I must battle the worst demon
you can ever imagine, myself. I stand between me and the book, the page, the
word. The armor I wear is damn near impossible to get past. I brandish a
flaming sword in one hand, a poisoned tipped cat-of-nine-tails in the other. I
know my every move before I do. I can throw obstacles in my way I know are far
beyond my skills to over come.
How do you fight a mirror? How do you get past yourself?
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