I glance at the Spotify and see the playlist “wives” and feel my stomach drop. “Wives” refers to most of my main characters in one of my novels. I loved this story idea, along with my other novel that I was creating in tandem, because why stop at one book when your mind doesn’t have an off switch?

Here’s the problem, the anxiety mouth eating my insides: I haven’t touched either story in months, probably more than half a year. I feel shame, and guilt, and wonder if the stories are dead on the page. But every time I look up a character page or listen to a playlist, I get hit with so much of the plot, the little character traits, the feelings I want to show.

But fear, the fear of failing, keeps me from picking up the pen or sitting at the keyboard. I don’t want to write my characters of color incorrectly or racist-ly, I don’t want to hurt anyone, I want to do it right. I don’t want to fuck up a delicate subject or not give my idea justice.

Because of these thoughts, the ideas rot in many old notebooks and unopened word documents.

I must, joyously, unleash my words but the energy I have to find to do it is daunting, it’s there but so far away.

“Come to me little birds, and I will kiss you.” -Kelsie, 2017

The birds have come, and how can I refuse to love them?