Interconnected Fears

That no one will notice me.

That someone will notice me.

That the loft bed will collapse while I am sleeping in it.

That the ceiling will cave in and rats will fall out on my head. (Not entirely impossible: An old friend who spent a summer dancing at a club in New Orleans said rats used to fall from the rafters onto the girls on the stage. Now if that doesn’t make you want to avoid stripping before strangers I don’t know what does.)

Stripping before strangers.

Rats.

Racists.

Being unable to finish this novel.

Finishing this novel—because then I will have to decide if I want to get it published. Which means I will have to write query letters again and contact agents again or else publishers and I will have to be fearless and keep trying.

Trying.

Not trying.

Losing my eyes to a horrible accident so I won’t be able to see to walk but, more terribly, won’t be able to read books.

A certain amount of things involving the person I am in love with that I won’t put into words.

A certain amount of things involving apocalyptic anarchy and/or individual acts of senseless violence that I won’t put into words.

Car wrecks.

Mysterious leaks in cars that smell like gasoline but that the driver can’t figure out what they are so they say, Oh well, let’s just keep driving.

Learning how to drive.

Giant 24-hour supermarket parking lots, specifically a certain one in Ohio where I tried to learn how to drive. And failed.

Being stuck in a giant 24-hour supermarket in Ohio.

Meat hidden in my food.

People who would be cruel enough to actually hide meat in my food. (I have known such people.)

Complete and total darkness.

Complete and total darkness made worse by the tiny circle of a shaky flashlight beam while you are walking alone at night near the woods.

Bats.

Bats in your living room when your parents aren’t home.

Being 15 again and living at home with my parents.

Being forced to play kickball or any other organized sport.

Balls in general.

Giving up.

Not being able to give up even when all signs point to the fact that maybe it’s time to.

The continual ticking away of time.

Never writing again.

Fire.

Being buried alive.

Sleeping through something amazing.

My own incontrollable inner rebel who will not even listen when I say she has a lot of work to do this weekend and should not be goofing off like this so stop it right now I am serious.

Being entirely too serious.


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