After starting several books and finishing none of them, I thought that, perhaps, a blog would be a more casual place to start. Less pressure. I hate pressure.
Why don’t my books get finished? The answer is simple. Fear. It’s the asking of the question, “What do I have to contribute?”, and coming up empty. It’s really the same monster that keeps anything from getting done. “What do I have to offer?”
I wish that, at 30, I could say that I didn’t ask myself those questions. Daily. In this profession, I’m surrounded by good looking, talented, funny, amazing and YOUNG humans. Doubt, regret, fear, insecurity, jealousy and feelings of inferiority creep into my consciousness far more than they should. Combine those with a wicked case of body dysmorphia and you have a recipe for Prozac. Which I’m on, by the way. Not a lot of people know that. I’ve been medicated since my sophomore year of high school, after developing a habit of taking pills to numb the pain. And, you know what, I should have been on anti-drepressants years before then.
So this insecurity is deep-seeded and strong. It taps me on the shoulder at parties. It wakes me up at night. It pinches my arm in the girl’s dressing room. It whispers in my ear when I get up to sing. It closes the journal when I begin to write. “What do you have to contribute?”
Well, I’ll tell you. I have my thoughts, the good and the bad. I have my opinions, both bold and developing. I have a body, while imperfect, is still my own, and has allowed me to climb mountains, tap dance and walk the streets of Paris. I have a voice. I don’t always love it, but it’s allowed me travel the country in yellow ball gowns, to wear a red braid down my back, and to carry a dog named “Toto” under my arm. I can cook you an excellent meal to feed your stomach and your soul. I am loyal and will fight for you. I can read a book in one sitting. I can make you laugh when you are crying.
I’m Liz. It’s nice to meet you.