T-minus two weeks and counting…
My hands hurt. My current level of concentration could be described as fleeting at best. There is also a bounty of butterflies feverishly bouncing about walls of my stomach, which succeed in heightening my present trepidation, causing me to be acutely aware of the fear that resides within the recesses of my Linoleum soul.
Yes, preparing for my part on Uncommon Threads is making me uncommonly uneasy.
Not since my teaching days of standing before a classroom of 40 or so unfamiliar college students on the first day of the semester have I felt quite this way. And no, I’m not suffering from stage fright for I am abnormally comfortable in rooms filled to the rafters with people that I don’t know. In short, I’m not shy and the art of dialog has never been an event that I’ve steered clear of whether the beings with whom I am sharing verbiage are known quantities or completely foreign. Therefore, the butterfly bonanza bouncing about the walls of my stomach cannot be attributed to any performance anxiety.
So, if not stage fright, then what could possibly be bothering your Lady of the Linoleum, you inquire?
Well, if we revisit my inaugural day before a classroom of bright and shiny freshman collegiates, then we may be able to determine the source of my stomach’s butterfly-tis.
LadyLinoleum, a mere 28 years old, tote loaded for bear with art historical tomes painfully tearing humerus away from scapula, two carousels o’slides replete with artworks galore nudged up beneath the armpits, syllabus in tow, 40 or so kissers turned to face young art chick recently liberated from schoolius gradius, waiting for the magic or quite possibly the mishap to spill forth from said art chick’s lips during premiere lecturus maximus.
Now fast-forward a bit…
LadyLinoleum stands before collegiates flipping happily thru abbreviated history of western art while simultaneously spewing forth art speak to beat the band when suddenly she notices that said students are taking notes.
They couldn’t possibly be taking notes from my spoken word, could they? Um, well, it’s college and uh, note taking is sort of a classroom ritual in these parts...
I hope that I am not saying anything that could be, perhaps, in any way, WRONG.
There it is folks, the source of my fear rearing its ugly head. The act of positing myself as an expert when in reality, I’m a hack. Yessiree peeps, you heard it here first. I’m a hack. A creative hack. A gregarious hack. But a hack nonetheless. And I’m okay with inhabiting my hackdom when I’m just exhibiting my creations on this here bloggy, blog, blog or my website (yes, I know I haven’t updated it in a while), but hel-lo! I’m taking my show on the yellow brick road! In living color! Leaving Dorothy in the dust in Munchkinland, while the Wicked Witch of the West tails my crocheted meaty rear all the way to Oz atop her supercharged hook, I mean, broom, cackling at the spectacle of this here art chick trying to inspire the masses to take up hook and yarn and create…the “right way”! The “educated way”! The “CGOA way”! Whatever that is.
Hey I’m a hack, remember?
I can see it now, DIY aficionados and crochet experts alike, having seen my needlework nuttery on the show, later label me as a crochet cretin. A doily dumbass. A simpleton with a steel hook. That is my fear. And that, my friends, is contributing heavily to my butterfly-tis.
Now, I’ve heard it said that the difference between leaders and followers is simply how fear is handled. Leaders, I am told, do not let fear obstruct them from attaining their goals no matter the circumstances surrounding the situation. These people just proceed forward, all the while thumbing their noses at fear’s frown. Followers, I hear, are more likely to let fear prohibit them from taking that shaky first step out onto the plank of the unknown, suspended precariously over the abyss, outcome uncertain.
Despite my sometimes debilitating fear, this is why I push forward. Not that I believe myself to be the leader of crocheters everywhere. Not in the least. However, I am a risk-taker. And we who take risks are similar to leaders in the sense that fear will not be our undoing. So, hack or no, I will follow the yellow brick road all the way to the studios of Screen Door Entertainment located in midtown Oz, hook and thread at the ready, giving the virtual Wick Witch of the West and the culture of fear she propagates a good nose-thumbing. And I will survive. I may even prevail.
Sore hands be damned and butterflies beware for in the inveterate words of ye olde green one, "I’ll get you my pretties…"