I'm amazed at how many imaginary excuses I come up with to justify not starting. I push things off until the last hair's-breath of a minute. Internally panicking until I'm crunched by a deadline. I procrastinate until starting becomes unavoidable. I'm afraid. I'm frozen in fear over the possibility of tanking . . . what if something I flooded my heart into isn't as great as I thought? What if nothing comes of it? Endless possibilities flourish on the other side of Just Starting. I risk sharing the preciousness of my being for all to see, and feel and judge. I hide in the shadows of evasion until I'm so stir-crazy I have to do something.
A sentence in, the voices subside. A paragraph in, my spirit starts warming. A page down and my mind is flying. I'm latched in the flow and there's nowhere to hide. I no longer want to. It feels good, exhilarating . . . genius. The purest high of genuine creation is all that matters. The worries that inhabit the space before Just Starting always fade away when I let myself fall belly-up into the doing of my dream.