Don’t Be Scared.

If you asked me what I want to hear right now that’s what I would say.

Not that “Congratulations!” “I’m so proud of you!” “That’s so cool!” or anything of the like is unwanted. It’s all wonderful to hear. After all, I thrive off positive reinforcement (as I’ve said before.)

Those encouraging words of praise make me wring my hands and step over my own toes with an embarrassing sort of pride. I’ve never been great at knowing what to say when a compliment passes the threshold of “nice jacket!” As soon as I can no longer explain where I got said thing you’re complimenting, who did my hair, or that social media managing is really not as impressive as most people over 40 think, I lose any and all prepared responses in my head.

A lot of people didn’t know I was writing a book. Oops.

It’s hard to brag about a passion you rarely have anything to show for. A few abandoned chapters of over a decade of books (over 100 now, I’m afraid) is not exactly something I yearn to introduce myself with.

“Hi, I’m Melody. I’m married, own guinea pigs, work at a crystal shop, and write books I never finish to keep myself relatively sane. You are?” (Anyone who knows me would definitely put an emphasis on relatively.)

I’m by no means embarrassed of this art of mine. A thousand unfinished projects that I enjoyed creating mean much more than one finished project that I hated. Just take a look at my essays from high school English if you want the proof.

But the meaning of these projects, their life’s purpose, is for me to enjoy creating them.

I have never written a book with the intention of releasing it to the world.

Does this mean I never dreamed of becoming an author? Hell no! Every story I’ve never finished has become a bestseller and box office hit in my head.

But those were dreams. This is reality. The intersection of the two is what poets write about.

It’s this terrifying moment when you are staring at your reflection in a mirror and you realize it’s a door.

A door you might have to break into. Maybe pick a lock. Perhaps you have to dig a rusty key out of a garden, and that itself takes ages.

But this door, this version of yourself you’ve known only in dreams, is waiting for you to walk through.

Suddenly you realize why dreams often remain behind the veil.

To create is to bare a piece of your soul.

If you’ve ever snatched an artist’s sketchbook and promptly felt the wrath of god, you know what I mean. (I surrounded myself with talented artists in school and have been threatened with stabbing by pencil for this crime on multiple occasions.)

When a piece of your mind is suddenly available for others to interpret, it’s (insert swear word of choice)-ing terrifying. It doesn’t matter if you wrote the least groundbreaking novel in the world, The Love Story of White Bread and Whole Wheat, a Modern Shakespearian Tale, you’re suddenly vulnerable.

Everyone is a critic. Everyone has an opinion. Everyone has likes and dislikes and loves and hates and what if everyone hates what you’ve created?

What if this dream of yours becomes a nightmare?

(Spoiler Alert, unless you’ve created a Heartless Idiot’s Guide to Kicking Puppies and Burning Down Playgrounds, this is not your fate. I promise. If you did write that book, please don’t publish it and instead seek professional help and maybe a religion of some sort.)

Even though these fears are only fears and not fate, it’s still scary.

The knowledge that strangers are going to read my book isn’t the scary part, in fact, it’s quite thrilling. Someone with no idea of who I am could pick up this magical thing I created and enjoy it. The same way I did as a teen, scarfing down library books from the young adult section like they were oxygen and I was drowning.

It’s the people I know whose reactions have me waiting with bated breath.

Yes, my best friends love this book, my husband loves it, my sister-in-law loves it and she’s both one of the smartest people I know and in my target audience.

This is all good. It’s promising. It’s proof that there are people who will read and enjoy what I’ve created.

This promising proof does not keep the fears from springing up from time to time. What if it’s too dark at times? What will that one person think about the main characters being gay? (That one pops up a lot, like a homophobic wack-a-mole that my subconscious keeps plugging quarters into.) What if my sisters think it’s cringey?

These fears boil down to one final boss:

What if people think of me differently?

The funny thing is: that’s life. Every choice you make changes the perception people have of you.

I’m a hippie vegan who works at a crystal shop and cries watching Pixar films. My wedding was Lord of the Rings themed. I’m a devout Swiftie and a shameless Nicolas Cage fan.

It’s almost like I’ve been preparing my whole life for this moment. This is the part in my hero’s journey where I take up my sword and say: “Yeah, I am a badass who can save the world and I think I have been the whole time.”

Except I’m not a badass saving the world (at least not yet, never say never.) Instead, my bravery lies in confidence and self-assurance.

Yeah, I am an author who wrote a gay coming-of-age fantasy romance and I am proud of it.

Maybe people I know will think it’s cringe or that I’ve fallen to the liberal agenda. Perhaps they’ll read it and think “damn Melody’s nuts”.

But you know what?

I’m not scared.

And if you have a dream that you’ve almost grasped, a key to that door, and you’re scared of what people will think, I’m here to tell you:

Don’t be scared.