The problem with being a semi-recluse.

And there are many.

I'm not good with people;  meeting them, being around them, socializing.   Every time I have to go out to the store or am forced to be social I have an anxiety attack.  Which has gotten worse, may I add,  since my semi-hermit lifestyle began.  It started off as a joke but quickly turned into a state of being.

The problem is that I want to get out there.  I want to meet people, talk to them, get inspired by them because there is something to be gained by social encounters.

I panic when I think about taking my writing seriously.  What if I want to get published by an actual publishing house.  What if they ask me to have meetings or to talk about what I've written?  Then there are book signings/readings where I'd have to stand in front of a group of strangers reading excerpts. (My throat is closing up as I type this.)  What if no one shows up and I'm sitting at a small desk with unwanted copies of something that I treasure?   

To save myself from this hypothetical situation, I don't write diligently. When I write, it's for fun. I reach a point where I think, "This might actually become something."  I get all excited, then the next day I ignore the document like it's an aging aunt who likes to pinch cheeks.

The truth is, though, that I still want it.  I still want to write stories that people want to read and get excited about.  I want to be good at it.  Good enough where at least five people would show up to support me.  I'm not looking for fame or to get insanely rich, I just want to share my stories.

If I can sort out my sh*t in 2017 and gain some courage, maybe it will happen.  Maybe I can face my fears and take the bull by the horns. (Though, why would I want to do that?  What's the purpose of taking a bull by his horns? Can the bull and I not just be friends? Can he not just give me a gentle nudge forward in support of my efforts?)

I'm proud of what I've written. I want to share it. I want to promote my poems and my book because it was a challenge for me to publish them.  They're an expression of a lifetime of pain, confusion, sorrow. They're an admission and acknowledgment of my "weaknesses."  They are the things that no one close to me knows about.  I know that there are people out there who can relate, and perhaps find comfort and kinship with it all.