Whenever I start a new project, I feel this tingly-tickle way down in my toes and undeniable urge telling me to charge forward. I jump into planning, and I’m an adult on a sugar-rush without actually consuming candy and calories.
Then my little bony ankles get wet and bring me to my senses. I take a moment to stare at the river I’m wading in and the tingly-tickle gives way to an oh-crap-belly-drop. What did I get myself into?
And I want to quit. The river’s too wild. The project’s too big. My novel’s too outside my comfort zone. My painting’s too much outside my skill level. The _____ is too ______.
Then I blink. And blink again. And again because I live in Denver and we’re the definition of a dry climate.
The river changes shape into a more manageable size (or maybe I’ve grown a bit bigger), and I take one step at a time to cross the darn thing.
I’ll be waving and cheering you on from the other bank.