If you could be here to witness how nervous/frazzled/questioning-my-mental-wellness I get right before releasing new work online, you might shake your head and wonder why I keep doing it. God knows I do.
It's a little bit like childbirth--so much of the painful parts fade from memory. I forget how much I dread calling the printers, and how often I end up having to call them, and how disappointing it is when a mistake is made and I arrive to find it wrong, all very wrong. I forget that we need to take however much work we estimate it will be and multiply by ten.
I don't forget how I feel suddenly shy and awkward when the moment comes to finally send something new into the world. All the worries are familiar--that I'll forget something, a clumsy drop of china plates circling in mid-air. Or that I'll fumble through the words and not really do the work justice--that passerby will shrug, unmoved, and walk on without knowing what they are missing.
I am haunted by the way my heart feels like I am throwing it over some invisible line. Or how with every offering it's like climbing up onto an altar, hopingprayinglonging for it to be welcome. For it to be loved.
Here's the truth: I don't know why I keep doing it. It doesn't feel terribly sane, and I'll soon be asking my therapist if I need medication yet.
All I know is, I feel this compulsion when greeted by beautiful dreams to make them real.
One of my friends/collaborators joked last week that she should start calling me her fairy godmother. It doesn't feel fairy-like, or godmother-ish tonight. I'm not sure it ever does. But maybe this is how things work in the real world--perhaps us all of us makers, who do what we do even when it's hard/scary/crazy-making, are allowed our anxiety, our fear, our soft blankets, soothing cocoa, and even our therapists.
Heading to the printer tomorrow to pick up these. Fingers crossed that they turn out just right.