The summer sun beats down on my back. I pick up the paintbrush, dip it into the five-gallon bucket, wipe the excess on the rim. There’s black paint on the fence already, but it’s old. Dad and his friend Joe painted it the first time, back when I was still bopping around the yard in pull-ups and Casey was alive.
Time has passed. Joe moved away. We sold Shadow and W.D.—the horses we have now are new ones. Belle grazes beside the red pickup that replaced Old Blue. I coat the boards with paint that covers up the twelve years of weather and wear.
A gray jumping spider with eight green eyes scuttles toward me. “You better move, little guy,” I tell it. “Before you get paint on you.”
I’ve got paint on my hands. It’s under my fingernails and in the hair that’s strayed out of my ponytail. It’s half-dried, sticky in the summer sun. When I tilt the bucket, it splashes my shirt and my face. A splotch lands on my eye, gluing the lid to my brow until I blink.
* * * * *
I write with the sticky tar of fear splattered on my clothes, my face, my hands. The treads of my shoes are black with it, marking everywhere I’ve been. And because it has yet to mar the places I want to go, I wonder if I shouldn’t walk there.
Fear is having an idea strike me—wanting to share, to speak, to step into cool air conditioning and drink a glass of ice cold confession. But then wondering what people will think. Worrying.
Will the boy I like ask me out if he sees what’s on my mind?
Are hiring managers going to throw my resume out if they read my struggles?
What will Dad think—my dad who reads everything I write, even when it’s mostly things he’d rather not know?
Will my friends question my faith? Will I make them question theirs?
I tell myself it’s silly to think my words could have so much power. Except I remember the power words have over me. Good writing can hold the weight of my hopes, my sadness, myself. It’s handed me my life a thousand times over.
And I realize words aren’t the problem—it’s the fact that these are my words. I’m not J.K. Rowling; my readers aren’t millions of curious strangers. They’re handfuls of people who have as much impact on my life as I’ve got on theirs, if not more. I doubt my words can have power over them—and I fear that that’s exactly the case.
* * * * *
The boards glisten black and wet in the afternoon sun. I’ve got sticky black tar all up and down my arms, on my jeans, on the plastic cup that’s got my ice tea in it. I rub at the paint. “It isn’t coming off,” I say.
Dad motions toward the garage. He sets out a roll of shop towels and a two-gallon jug of mineral spirits. “This will take it off,” he says.
He tips the jug, pouring the clear liquid onto a towel, and rubs it over my arm. It erases some of the paint.
I take the towel and start scrubbing. My skin shines with the stuff, which looks like water and feels like oil. It smells harsh and combustible—but it takes the paint away.
The spirits sink into the cuts and cracks on my fingers where I’ve done barn chores and picked up splinters from the fence. It stings and burns my eyes and feels too good not to run the soft blue shop towel over my skin one more time.
* * * * *
When my deadlines come due, when I’m almost ready to post the link on my social media page, when I’m not getting the number of “likes” I wanted—that’s when I’m afraid my words aren’t good enough. That I’m not good enough.
Because the truth is, I’m not scared of what I’ve written. I’m scared of giving my work to other people. I’m afraid my words might change what those people think—and just as afraid that they won’t change a thing at all.
There isn’t a way to get over fear like that, at least not that I’m aware of. So I just let the words sting and scrub them on paper splattered in black—and when my hands are clean again, I hold the page out for the next person to wipe their dirty hands with the words I wrote.
Megan grew up on a small farm in southern Indiana. After earning dual English and Writing degrees at IWU, she relocated to southeast Michigan to work as a copywriter. In her free time, she enjoys hiking local trails, horseback riding, and taking pictures. She loves visiting Indiana to see her niece and her horse, Chance. Megan also writes Earthworms https://megzilla99.wordpress.com/, a blog about hope, security, and God.