Frozen

But defrosting

Frozen. That's how I feel every time I think about writing and publishing something. Almost a year has passed since I registered the Cryptid Den on Substack. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to accomplish here and told myself I’d get back to it. Eventually.

Why do I constantly do this? Is it an innate fear of shouting into the void with no one to listen? Am I afraid of somehow doing it wrong? Of failing at something where I’m the one determining what success means?

Perfectionism haunts every facet of my life, a specter that has followed me from childhood. I know it’s excessive, but I tell myself it’s a good thing. It’s having higher standards.

A few weeks ago my brother told me he’s always suspected I have a form of OCD.

He told me a story about how 15 years ago I made the family a pizza. Each topping was spread evenly across the cheese, every element measured with an artist’s eye for unity and balance. It was the most beautiful pizza he’d ever seen, like it came straight from a magazine.

It took me over an hour.

I realize now I’m not trying to bake a pizza for a front page glamor shot. I have to accept my writing as flawed.

It’s a hard lesson for me to swallow.

Sometimes when I avoid a project for long enough it becomes all I can think about. Almost parasitic, every day working its way deeper into my thoughts. Feeding myself? I should be writing. My day job? I should be writing. In bed, the insomnia at its peak? I should be writing.

The pressure builds into an explosive burst of energy. Ideas blast in all directions like shrapnel. My heart hears the metallic clanks of triggered hammers on a typewriter, my claws singing an uneven harmony across my keyboard.

Could writing on a computer have any satisfaction without those clicks?

With the buildup of creativity finally released, I go back into a state of dormancy for months.

Until I can’t handle the pressure anymore.

A pizza, but not the pizza.

So, here I am. Trying. Erupting. Letting my slices of pepperoni fall where they may.

What kind of pizza am I baking? An imperfect one with toppings that shouldn’t fit together, but taste delicious. It’s never the same, but always satisfying.

If you’ve made it this far, you’ve already taken the first bite. I hope you come back for more.

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