The one thing I’ve learned from the writing life is that the hounds of knowledge always send the lions of fear running.

As a zoo director and wildlife photographer I have been mauled by an African lion, been on the verge of drowning twice, swam with sharks, wrestled alligators, had an African leopard shot off the top of me with a ten gauge shotgun, been bit three times by poisonous snakes, bluff charged by black bears and attacked by an angry African elephant, and I am terrified of writing.

I have been chased by a mad bull elk, had a tooth pulled by a drunken, masochistic dentist without the benefit of Novocain, lived seventy three eventful years, survived three heart attacks and been married five times, and I am afraid of writing.

The only thing I fear more than writing is not being published, therefore, I write.

The first time I ever entered a lion’s cage I was deeply moved by two almost overwhelming emotions, fear so intense that I could taste the bile of it rising up in my throat and a sense of excitement so hot that it scorched my skin.

There are those times as I write I sense the presence of those same identical emotions. (Though the lions are different the fear is the same.)

Perhaps the boy was eight or nine years old when he climbed the tree. Way up there in the top of that tree he looked around and could see that he was far above the tops of the other trees. Wow, he could see way over there!

Then, he never could figure out why, but he looked down, and down was an awful long way to the ground. The first thing that entered his mind was a very profound, ‘How the dickens did I get way up here?’ And then ‘what if I fall? I might break an arm, a leg, my neck! Daddy always did say I was going to break my fool neck. OH M’ GAWD, I’M GOIN’ T’ DIE!’

To say that he was scared was an understatement, he was terrified. He was probably going to starve to death way up there in the top of that tree, or he was going to fall and at the very least be horribly crippled.

There was no way to know how long he stayed up in the nether regions of that tree but he eventually realized that his destiny was in his own hands and inch by inch he made it to the ground and arrived home in time for dinner.

The next day I went back and climbed that darned tree again and went through the same agony, the same fear, all over again. And again, and again, ad nauseum.

But the view was incredible from up there and I figured mistakenly that eventually I would overcome my fear.

For me writing is like that, continually climbing that darned tree and every time after I climb up there among the clouds I have to make my way, inch by inch, to the ground again and do you want me to tell you a secret? It never fails, every time I get to the top of my journalistic tree the view is more grand, more wondrous than before.

Ralph Keyes, in his excellent book, ‘ THE COURAGE TO WRITE’ explains it very well, and I quote, “A life of quiet desperation is no alternative for a working writer. To write well, they must risk themselves, and always in public. The one risk a working writer doesn’t run is of slipping into a safe monotonous dotage.”

And there you have it. Writing For me is the heart of creativity that pumps the blood of purpose through the veins of life.

Check next time for more from, THE WRITER’S HEART.

You Should Also Check Out This Post:

More Active Posts: