I’ve been thinking about writing this postDepositphotos_72511619_l for a long time. For so long actually that I haven’t written any other posts in the meantime. As mentioned earlier in other posts, I worry about what to reveal as Liz Black. I don’t want to divulge too much personal information. I don’t want people in my day job to find out and should I ever get fans I don’t want them to be able to find my home address. What is all this based upon? Fear.

I am afraid of many things. I am afraid to lose the few people I have left. I am afraid of leaving my job. I am afraid of the dentist. I am afraid of the dark. I am afraid this whole writing thing is a scam, and I will never be able to sustain myself with it. I am afraid of developing some serious disease. I am afraid of losing my mind. I am afraid of never reaching my full potential. I am afraid I’ll never write a decent story in my life ever again. The only thing I’m not afraid of is death.

Why am I telling this now? When I published my first story about six months ago, I decided not to be the person to complain all the time. I used to have people like that on Facebook, and I blocked them because of it. The problem is that I became silent. I turn silent when I have nothing useful to say. I don’t think that’s a bad trait, but it wasn’t helping me building a presence online.

My fear is also blocking my writing. My sales have been abysmal over the last two months. Now with every story that I come up with, every word that I write I wonder whether it will sell. I’m not writing for me anymore. I don’t write anymore. I have not been able to lose myself in a scene in a long time. And that’s when I do my best writing. I keep staring at the blank screen, and every writer knows how scary that is. I hate every sentence that I type. Of course I’ve been trying to write stories just for me, but even that mind trick doesn’t work anymore.

I’ve been seeing a homeopath, and I’ve been given drops to help me with my depression and my anxieties. I feel a bit better now. I have a little more courage. I think it’s a struggle for the rest of my life. Lately I’ve also started to review indie stories. I enjoy that greatly. It’s fun to read good stories, and to help others by leaving a review.

The moral of this story? My silence has its causes. It’s not because I’m not interested. It’s not because I’m not putting an effort into my writing. The demons from my past have been blocking me for a long time now. I hope one day to slay them and to be able to say I am happy. Though I doubt that day will ever come.

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