Dear Reader,

The diving board was a lot higher than it had looked from below. Tiptoeing towards the edge of the platform, I gripped the guardrail and peered over. Yep. It was pretty high, alright.

I wanted to turn around and skedaddle down the ladder. But I couldn't. My best friend Ken stood below, off to the side, refusing to take his eyes off me. "You promised!"

Shivering, I stepped on to the board and made my way to the end. Most people would feel the board dip at this point, but I wasn't most people. I was skin and bones, lucky to register 40 lbs. on the scale, soaking wet. In my case the board stayed rigid, which was oddly comforting. I needed that because Ken wasn't any comfort whatsoever.

Looking back at my friend, I pleaded for mercy, not caring that my palpable fear was on full display. "I don't think I can do it!" I declared.

Ken was unmoved. "You promised," he called up with a shrug.

Ken wasn't being a bully. Two minutes earlier, when I'd stood where he was now, I'd gladly been persuaded to give this a go. It was going to be fun! He'd made this jump several times already, and he really wanted me to experience it. That said, sensing I might chicken out, he made me promise I wouldn't come back down the ladder. A promise I was now deeply regretting.

A shiver of fear ran through me as I moved to the very edge of the diving board. So this is what it feels like to walk the plank, I thought. Except I wasn't Peter Pan, and I didn't have any fairy dust. My only choice was to step off and succumb.

It's weird how your stomach leaves your body when you're in free fall. I've never been one to feel nauseous, but I was decidedly lightheaded as I plunged feetfirst towards the pool. My eyes drifted up to the ceiling, heart pounding, breathlessly noting that this fall was taking a very long time. Then I felt the sting of my feet hitting the water, the whoosh of bubbles charge up my body, and the deliciously cold air that greeted my wet head as I resurfaced.

That was the only time I let Ken convince me to do something scary, but it was far from the last time I felt that kind of fear. In the thirty years since, I've felt it often. It's kept me from riding roller coasters, getting on airplanes, and striking up conversations with people I don't know.

It's also kept me from writing for myself.

I say "for myself," because there's never been a time when I wasn't writing something. School papers. Work proposals. Other people's books. I've always found myself doing work that requires plenty of clickety-clacking. But fear rarely shows up in those circumstances. Why? Because those kinds of writing aren't personal. School papers are written to please professors. Proposals, to keep clients happy and safely at bay. Other people's books are supposed to capture what matters to them, not me.

However, when it comes to putting my thoughts and words out there, I feel just like that eight-year-old kid cringing on the high diving board. All sorts of fears rise up. "What if somebody out there hates this?" "What if so-and-so reads this and gets made at me?" "What if so-and-so reads this and thinks, 'Meh'?"

I can't count the number of times I've chosen to climb down the ladder. After all, not writing, not clicking Publish, feels a whole lot safer. It's why I spent nearly a decade not writing for myself. It's why I still have to force myself to write these weekly emails. Not because I don't enjoy it (I do!), but because the What-If Monster never seems to get any smaller or quieter.

When I work with clients, I regularly encourage them to write in public. A choice of words that admittedly puzzles them. "You mean, like, at Starbucks or on a park bench?" Well, sure, if that helps. What I'm really saying is, "Constantly and consistently put what you write in the public eye." It could be an email like this. It could be a blog post or something on social media. Heck, you can print it out on paper and staple it to electrical poles.

The point is to expose yourself and your writing.

Expose. It's such an discomfiting word, isn't it? And yet I don't think we're really writing for ourselves if we don't feel that discomfort. Sharing your work should feel like wearing a Speedo to your neighborhood pool. It should feel like you're a homeschooled teenage girl wearing a spaghetti strap tank top to the youth group BBQ. It should feel like you're torn between failing your best friend and death. That's how you know you're doing it right.

How's that for some motivational pep talk?

Keep your stick on the ice.

Frank Ewert
Book Coach, Editor, and Recovering Puritan
Author of Embrace Your Writer's Block and Blue Ice​