Recently, I took a walk through Grand Central Station naked. I’m sorry, that’s not true. I don’t live anywhere near Grand Central Station. If I were to go there, I would at least wear a parka/some galoshes/a sombrero. But it turns out that sharing my writing with others is equivalent to walking through a heavily populated train station in my birthday suit. It is much harder than I thought. For years, I’ve fancied myself an up-and-coming author, experiencing life and taking notes, just waiting to have the time and inspiration to write my first best seller. Now that I’m taking the steps to put some of my ideas on paper and share my work with friends, family, and the entire Internet, I find myself overcome with a paralyzing case of self doubt. The thoughts that have crossed my mind since starting this blog four days ago have been along the lines of “Newborn hedgehogs can write better stuff than you. Now, get back to your day job.” This sort of thinking is not motivating. Therefore, I’m choosing to focus on the following facts: absolutely anyone is allowed to blog and many do, there are no expectations, there are no deadlines, and I can stop at anytime if the pressure is too intimidating. I shared all that so I could say this: Thank you to those who have read what little I’ve posted on this page and have not heckled me or otherwise taken steps to shatter my dream.