Fears (And Stains)

 Margaret Atwood asks, "What are your fears when it comes to writing?"

Fears. I fear not being read...because the writing isn't good. I tell myself I'll write for myself - the joy of it - but I do want to be read. But other eyes and other ears and other minds will judge and criticize. And that is what I fear most, that my bad writing is an indictment of me - the person who is not good at anything, even into old age. So I tell myself I write for myself. I guess if I value writing, I will spend time with writing. Those things we value are the things we spend time with. So I'll tell myself that any icing on the cake - like being read by others - will taste sweet but I fear this is so unlikely and that it will eventually feel like writing on a deserted island. 

I fear me.

And I should. My past is my predictor. My artistic achievements? What are they? My past is my predictor. My past is a minefield: littered with bodies and limbs and bloody failures; steam rising from the guilt and ineptitude as I bleed out over the decades, staining everyone's clothing.