This is what I'm talking about, Guys.

Entry No. 1

I'm talking about how I just spent an absurd amount of time in front of my computer, hemming and hawing over what to call this section of my Substack. Mind you, the first installment of said Substack, Stock Fiction, remains in DRAFT limbo, despite being ready to publish.

What’s the hold up, you ask?

Ah. That’s just me. Worst Case Scenario Girl. Able to foresee failure and demolish confidence in a single bound.

As with most superpowers, mine is a blessing (not really) and a curse. As a prognosticator of doom, I am equipped to provide an (over)protective force field for myself and those around me. My children rarely trip over untied shoelaces or fall over backwards in their chairs at the dinner table (knock on wood, because superstition comes with the territory.) And I next to never press “SEND” or “POST” or “PUBLISH” or “SUBMIT” on anything I’ve worked my ass off to create.

That’s where this newsletter/journal/manifesto comes in.

I need to care less.

Care less if something’s not perfect.

Care less if someone will “like” it.

Care less if someone will “loathe” it.

Care less if I’m viewed as an imposter.

I don’t think this makes me a jerk. Because I actually care a lot. But caring about everything is exhausting. I’d prefer to wear myself out caring about my family, and my house, and my small handful of friends and whether my Halloween decorations look cool than to doubt myself into oblivion about my creative pursuits, which are thus:

See, I’m probably using “thus” wrong there. I did it to be cheeky. And the fact that I’m explaining that to you is just another example of me making excuses for my style. No more!

Or at least - Less often!

Where was I?

Thus:

I’m a writer.

I can say that because it’s true. I write. Every day. If that’s true for you, too, awesome! We can commiserate about all the ways being a writer sucks, and then outwardly cheer each other on while secretly hoping the other’s manuscript is hacked by robots while on submission to raise our own chances for success. I’m kidding. Sort of.

I’m emotional.

I often cry watching insurance ads, and listening to marching bands, and reading essays written by hopeful people on quests. Because I need insurance (or assurance). And I love bands. And I want to be hopeful. And I yearn to… quest.

Being emotional is not a creative pursuit. But I reserve the right to change the course of my bullet list (which I can see now is not bulleted) anytime I want.

That’s really the point of this. I see so many creative people just “doing the things” and “making the stuff” and saying, “Here. Consume this! Or don’t! I don’t care!”

And I don’t care. Or I don’t want to care.

That’s actually a line from one of my works in progress. A YA novel called “It’s Not Weird To Say I Love You.” It’s sweet, and funny, and angsty and you should read it. And maybe you will someday.

And maybe you won’t. Maybe no one will. Except my husband who is required to read everything I write and is the reason I get to be a writer and try to “do the things” and “make the stuff” that someone might care about. Or not.

The point is. If I care about the outcome, I’m doomed. Because for Worst Case Scenario Girl, the outcome is never good. I’ll always end up tripping over my own feet or falling backwards in my chair.

So, I’m going to publish this rant. For the sake of not caring. Or at least for the sake of not wanting to care so much about the outcome.

Maybe you enjoyed reading it. If you did, please consider subscribing or sharing.

Or don’t.

See if I care.

(Of course, I do.)

Sincerely,

W.C.S.G.