Sitting on the edge of choice, I want to run and hide, turn on the TV, or open the book sitting on my desk. Instead, I set my timer for 15 minutes.
“Now, sit here until you write your next post” (at least until the timer goes off) I say to myself.
Okay, yes, the book is finished, now comes the heart-cramping part, the effort to do something I’ve never done before: market myself, put myself out there in a public setting, pretend I “got this.”
I’ve emailed the publisher twice with, “What is it that I’m supposed to do?” The reply gets automatically thrown in the trash file.
Fear is a nasty feeling, all creepy and gummy. Denial of fear is insidious, and familiar as breath.
I tap on my breastbone, my forehead, perform the havening exercise, do the animal alphabet game, count inhales and exhales. “You can do this, Daryl, just read the reading series list and choose one. Make one call. Breathe.”
Thank goodness, the timer went off. I sat here for 15 minutes.