I blame Stephen King. Working around libraries, I’ve seen my share of finger puppets. Each time, I recall the creaky voice of little Danny Torrence, “REDRUM. REDRUM.” I’m pretty sure all those finger puppets laying around the library are plotting evil deeds after hours.
It’s not just storytime tools. The results of King’s work are everywhere. My cat’s eyes get a glint when he’s attacking my feet and I wonder, where did the adoption center find him? Was there a cemetery nearby? And parades! Don’t get me started on parades! Minding your own business on a sidewalk and some clown comes around offering a treat.
The fears I battle are more mundane than the likes of a possessed car or the Worst. Prom. Ever. Unlike the usuals — roller coasters, ghosts, death — I ponder a bowl of steaming lentils with caution. Can I choke that down and still appear grateful to my host? Will my jeans fit? Am I good enough? Can I love myself? Not knowing where to place the blame for my personal terrors, I turn to the master. Thanks, Stephen King.
I am wrapped in fear. It’s been my M.O. for a lifetime, protecting me from the unknown. The edges of it get frayed and dried from exposure – and age – peeling away childhood misunderstandings. That dog won’t bite me. There is no monster under the bed. I will learn to swim. But it remains a habit. Too afraid, I let an opportunity pass by. I decline the dance. I skip the scary chapter. It’s my own story I’ve written, but still I say, thanks, Stephen King.
Uncovering from fear takes practice. Practice takes time. Practice takes practice. And who has time for all that? All that falling down and brushing off. It’s safer here. I stay inside my walls, my imagination busy with worry over that which I cannot control and which may never come to be.
The truth is, the greatest horror of my life provided some of the greatest joy. Is that what Mr. King has been saying? In dire straights, we pull it together. We find out who our friends are. We rally. We win. Fear breeds courage. Courage says, yes, it is fucked up and the odds are against me, but I’ll do it anyway.
Courage is putting the words on the page. Every day. Even the bad ones. Edit them later. It’s saying “yes” to taking a chance. It’s staring into the vastness of the page for a new story to tell. Once the words come, it’s decision time. Which stay? Which must go? It was Stephen King who showed me the real horror. The adverb. The finger puppet of writing. And so I say it again. Thank you, Stephen King. Really.