Expectations always worry me. Or, perhaps, my own potential
worries me. Last week, I was given my first professional (ish) assignment as a
writer. After the initial excitement wore off, I flooded with insecurity. On
Friday, I was given two exemplar examples to follow when I started my
assignment, which only added to my fright.
Friday night, I worried myself into sleeplessness. Truly, I
was up multiple times for varied reasons and each time, I dreaded morning and
the responsibility it promised. Morning came, too soon, and I initially sweat
out stress.
For the rest of Saturday, I did absolutely nothing to
develop my assignment. In fact, I avoided my computer as if it was covered with
a contagion. I hung out with my family. I had supper with my grandparents and
babysat my nephew, I jet set around town, and ran to the store, but I avoided
tapping into any pocket of potential in reference to work.
Given my deadline ever desire to please those who afford me
assignments, I forced myself into sleep with sleepytime tea Saturday night. I
woke up this morning and I glued myself to my seat until I finished my
assignment. When I sent it to the editor who promised publication, my fingers
trembled.
What if it isn’t good? What if he doesn’t like it? What if
I’m not really a writer at all?
Whenever someone trusts me with something great, I question
my ability to “step up” to the challenge.
I wish I could tell you that the editor loved my work, but
he’s busy with company and won’t look at it until tonight. I can say, though,
that expectations are frightening, but I’m learning to love them too.
Expectations push our limits and open, for us, a broader view of who we are and
what we can do.
Sometimes, I really want to hate expectations, but
ultimately, I love them.
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