My mother told me that I wouldn’t be successful with the kind of personality I had. She said that I would have to work “twice, no- more than twice” as hard. I’m starting to think she was right. It’s not just the writing. It’s in everything I do. Everything that involves having to put myself out there. To be perceived by a million prying eyes. Those eyes that condemn you to judgement within fraction of that heartbeat of mine, pounding against my very bones ever so fiercely that it might just jump out of my chest right there, in front of everyone. Too much? Too bad. Because that is my reality. I don’t expect everyone to understand me. But I expect everyone to give me grace even when I think I don’t deserve it. I think I never do. But to know that I could have been great or as worshipped if what little talents I had were not hindered by the fear that are those millions of eyes… I trail off here. How do I put this in words? It infects me with envious poison. It shatters my bones u...