As the character, Barney Fife, Don Knotts once uttered some incredible wisdom.  When asked if he was afraid, he replied; “There’s nothin’ to fear but fear itself—and that’s what I got—fear itself!”  I’ve always thought that was a statement of profound wisdom.  Incredibly simple, incredibly true most of time.  There is nothing to fear but fear itself, but there are oh so many things that instill fear in us.

            “Oh, I’m afraid I won’t get the job.”

            “Oh, what he doesn’t like me.”

            “Oh, what will I do if Donald Trump gets re-elected.”

            Everyone has something every day that they fear will come about.  And lately, so have I.  I finished my fifth novel and it went to print on Labor Day.  It’s probably a good read, I honestly can’t say.  I enjoyed writing it, and I sweat blood trying to get it right, but right for who?  And what now?  Do I have anything else I want to say, or did I get it just right enough?

            Good question, and I’ve finally arrived at the answer although I took the long way around to find it.  At first I wrote for the fun of it, and laughed and cried right along with the protagonist.  Then slowly a morphing occurred and I began to wonder what other people might think.  Would they like it?  Better yet, would they like it enough to buy it?  Would others find the meaning in my words that I had intended them to find?  Would they be cathartic?  Would they want more, and what more would they like.

            I had fear itself.  And my writing suffered as a result. 

Now though I’ve learned a most valuable lesson.  Maybe the most important lesson in my life, and definitely the most important lesson in writing. 

The person I write for is me.  No one else.  If others like to read about my journey then welcome, but the only person that I need to satisfy —is me.  If there is to be more, it will be because I want it to be more. 

And if I am done, then I will be.