I finally wander downstairs to get the book only to open to those same words bouncing around my head during the last two hours of procrastinating. When was the first time you were afraid? Write for 10 minutes.
Since originally sitting down (yesterday) with the purpose of answering that question, I´ve finished answering another that I had conveniently forgotten, answered the philosophically deep question of who I really am, cleared up some potential questions about Novas trip details, browsed a few blogs, and read a whole bunch of rules about writing fiction, many of which seem to contradict each other. Still, I will do my best to avoid displaying pictures of suicidal geniuses on my non- existent desk and make sure I have two dull pencils on the plane instead of just one.
All that said, I will risk being interrupted by the sporadic skype conversation with the friend who introduced me to this beautifully challenging book, and start the clock to enter a groove where there´s not enough time to post a link on every other word.
What´s the question again? I can hardly be expected to remember the very first time I was ever afraid. I´m not the guy in that one movie- the albino who remembered what it felt like when his father looked at him in disgust. Was he afraid that he wouldn´t get his most basic needs cared for or just hurt? I have to wonder whether there were times as a newborn that I hadn´t been fed or spoken to or touched for a whole 20 minutes and I feared that there was a possibility that those big people would never come back. I know my brother spent some time crying in a relatively sound proof room to see if it worked, but I don´t think I had moments like that.
I don´t remember falling off a swing when I was two, but I´m sure I was afraid of the big, mean, scary people that were prodding and poking at my dislocated hip because I blame that for making me afraid of all of the other big people in white coats covered with flowers or dogs or whatever they have on there. I wouldn´t know. I´ve avoided them like the plague, and luckily my immune system is playing along.
Yet, in order to get to Nica, I was required to go anyways, even though my body insisted there was nothing wrong and my mind insisted risking revisiting those people would be a bad idea. All I could do after receiving the shots that I dreaded for so many years was to chuckle to myself about how many tears I wasted nurturing a fear of something that doesn´t even hurt.