I’m watching Rocky. The first one. The one where he’s got something to prove.
Maybe this is why I keep going when my eight month old spills my tea on my computer while I’m looking the other way, typing a novel with one hand, and it’s nap time and nobody’s napping. Maybe this is why I keep going?
I’ve got something to prove.
I don’t understand how I can be both terrified of failing and terrified of succeeding at the same time to the same degree of incapacitance. I don’t understand how I can be at one moment sure of my skill to the point of arrogance and at the next crippled by insecurity.
I just want to finish.
I’ve been told, more than I know at this point, that this involves doing work, facing fear, letting it be bad, and doing it again.
I have no one to fight but myself. I am my own Apollo Creed.
I will do the work. I will face the fear. I will let it be bad. I will do it again.
Like Rocky, at this point it’s not as much about winning as it is about going the distance. I want to still be standing when the bell rings and know for the first time in my life that I’m not just another bum from the neighborhood.