Book #2

It’s time. All of my excuses, save a few stragglers like getting my house in order and de-ghetto-ing the yard, are now expired. The wedding is over, the honeymoon was evacuated and the gift cards have been spent. I’ve signed the contract and cashed the check. There’s nothing left to do – but write. And write I must. I’ve been legally bound to produce a book filled with words (no pictures) that are original and poignant and interesting. And hopefully funny. When I think about it (which normally I choose to think about other things like grocery lists and who’s on Leno) my stomach churns. My head aches. My confidence runs scared, hiding behind the couch like a skittish kitten. I can think of one million and twelve reasons (trust me, I’ve counted) why I cannot and should not write another book. Why the mere idea of trying again is silly and crazy and outlandish. How this time I will surely be exposed for the fraud I know myself to be. I’m sure I have nothing to say. Convinced that to attempt to write another book will only be foolish vanity. Assured that I have no talent and no ideas and no originality. Positive that my publisher only signed me on for another book out of pity or boredom or ignorance of my lack. Quite simply, I’m afraid. Afraid to try and fail. Afraid to try and succeed. Afraid to expose myself, once again, to anyone who chooses to read my words. It’s a strange and other-worldly thing telling on yourself to complete strangers. One would think that since I’ve cathartically expose myself once, I would never do it again – that there shouldn’t be a need. I tell myself the first book was a mere fluke. A happenstance. I read other people’s words that are so much better than my own and think that all this publishing brouhaha must be a dream. Or a nightmare. Being creative on a schedule makes my pits sweat and my knees buckle. Deadlines make me queasy. But write I must. Write I should. Write I will.