Here I sit, in front of the blank posting screen with that cursor blinking at me. It reminds me of the fear I’d feel when my mother was put out with me for some reason – she’d cross her arms, arch her right eyebrow and tap her foot – at much the same tempo as the blinking cursor, waiting…. waiting. Waiting for what? Waiting for me to say something brilliant to explain or excuse what I’d done. I learned over time that the most expedient way to get out of whatever trouble I was in was to make her laugh, to deflect the focus away from my faulty judgement and onto the rediculousness of the situation. It seems I’ve endowed the cursor with my mother’s expectations, trouble is I’m not so sure what to say anymore.
It occurs to me that this is much like getting to know someone, finding a comfort zone. I’m rejecting ideas that come into my head because inwardly I groan at the prospect of having to give the backstory or setup before the story. Even though no one is reading this, there is the possibility that someone may, and even more than my mother’s tapping foot, I fear boring. Intellectually, I know I can tell a story, or make a point. It’s just my inner editor, that overbearing perfectionist, has his iron fist clamped tightly down on the pump handle of my idea well, tapping his jack-booted foot, waiting, waiting for me to say something brilliant.