Today I submitted a non-fiction piece to a magazine, and it
made me nervous.
I’m not nervous that they won’t like it. I’ve had some
rejections and they really didn’t hurt like I thought they would. I’m not
nervous that it’ll be accepted and become huge and consuming. It’s just the
very fact that I submitted it, and it makes me think, “Who in the world are
you, thinking that anyone wants to read what you’ve got to say? Your ego is
astounding!”
It’s funny to me. I used to write for a local Christian
magazine in High School and things I said generated a lot of heat, which was
great. Heat meant interest, and that meant discussion and consideration. It
meant my words and ideas had impact.
I wrote articles with the Yahoo Contributor Network before
it went bye-bye. I’d write a piece, then paste it into their submission form,
then edit the thing like nine times before hitting the Submit button.
Even posting something in my own blog makes me nervous.
Maybe anxious is a better word, or thrilled. A tremor of energy runs through my
whole body over the notion that I’m putting something out there for people to
read and consider. Even a Facebook post, if it’s something I really feel deeply
about, makes me jittery as I’m touching the screen of my phone over that Post
button.
If I write a technical analysis at work I feel that dizzy
excitement at the moment I send it off to be seen. I don’t worry so much over
the actual content (some, but I have a fair amount of confidence in my
knowledge and ability to communicate it) as I get the shivers at the notion of
putting it out there to be seen, consumed.
I can hold forth on some topic at length, to the point where
my girlfriend needs to remind me, “David – short version.” I am thrilled about
communication and dialogue. I love to teach, I love to speak in front of people
(which gives me the exact same kind of nervous thrill when I step onstage as
well as when I step off).
I still feel like I’m a little kid, writing my story in
Bible as Literature class in Middle School that the teacher asked to keep to
show other classes. I’m still the kid in Grade School who stood alone, stage
center, singing a part in the Bicentennial production Let George Do It. Just
this week I had the same shivers from teaching a short class at work as I had as
a singing Thomas Jefferson in 1976. I am nervous and excited and never feel
like I deserve to be there, even as I know I wouldn’t be there if I hadn’t
earned it.
I think I will never be comfortable with the idea that folks
want to read or hear what I have to say. I will never be comfortable about how
people where I work are happy to help me solve some problem that resides
outside my job description, even if they work in an area where distrust of
other work areas runs high. From a clerk pushing a cart to the Submission
Processing Director, I am never afraid to approach people and communicate.
Yet the hyper-awareness of what I’m doing, what I’m saying,
the fact that it’s stepping out sometimes where no one else can or will – I
feel like a little kid again. I’m comfortable saying and doing at the time, but
before and after the fact it dawns on me that I’m making an impact on other
people. My eyes are wide with wonder every time.
Maybe this publication will pass on my offering, and that’s
cool. I will shop it around elsewhere, or even fall back on using it for my
occasional blog. But no matter what, when it gets placed in front of someone
and has some impact, inside of me there’s a little kid going, “Wwwwwowwwww.”
