As I become more and more depressed about my lack of recent publication - the last short story I had published was before the little angel was born - I've been reading diatribes on writing from some of the greats.  Most of my inspirational books are boxed up in the basement from the last time we tried to sell This Old House and make it look like we really weren't the sort of people that stacked things in every corner of our living space (even though we do, because the shelving around here really sucks).  This week, I got Zen in the Art of Writing, by Ray Bradbury.  As I was reading it in the bathtub last night, I felt a wee bit inspired.

Then I got into bed and read the essay about his lists.  He generated a lot of story ideas by coming up with big lists of nouns.  One of the things he wrote a lot about was The Thing at the Top of the Stairs.   Apparently when he was a child, the only bathroom was upstairs, and the light switch was halfway up.  He was convinced there was some horrible thing at the top of the stairs waiting for him.

Well, hell, there was.  His imagination.  Yet somehow, he managed to harness that into an incredible collection of stories and novels.

I'm not really that kind of writer.  I've been scared of many things through the years - in my childhood, most notably having to pass by my bedroom at night when the lights were out and the shade was not drawn.   I think I had more reason that Bradbury to be scared, though - I had seen the shadow of my grandfather's German Shepherd pass by my window at night before, and let me tell you, a black German Shepherd can look an awful lot like a bear silhouetted against some leafless trees on a cold November night.  I remember when I had to pass my room, I would get a good running start.  Inevitably, though, I would look at the window, right as I passed.  My heart would pound.  I might have even whimpered a little bit.

Most of the things that scare me, though, are more existential in nature.  Here's a short list:

• What does it say about me if I really do worry that the things I own somehow define me to the rest of the world?
• What if I don't age well?
• What if I get bored with my beloved?
• What if I never publish again?
• Why do I care if people read what I write or not?
• What if the little angel wants a sibling?
• What if she wants a pony?
• What if she wants to date a girl? 
• What if she wants to date both boys and girls?
• What if her girlfriend rides a motorcycle and doesn't wear a helmet?
• What if she ends up on a therapy couch at 29 crying about what a bad mother I was?
• What if she decides she hates books?
• What if I there really are no new stories?
• What if I never see Europe?
• What if the world is really ending right now?
• What if I'm wrong about God?
• What if I'm right and He doesn't like me?
• What if my student evaluations turn out to be really horrible?
• What if I get really sick?
• What if I forget to ask the important questions of the little angel?
• What if I forget to ask the important questions of myself?
• What if I never achieve anything else on the list I made in a bar in Iowa City when I was 21 with my friend N.?
• What if I forget who I was in high school?
• What if I forget who I was today?
• What if I get Alzheimer's like my grandma and just...forget?
• What if I get mean?
• What if I get complacent?
• What if I don't?
• What if I never find another kitty like Sybil after she dies?
• What if everyone who reads this list finds it pathetic?

After getting about that far, I fell asleep.  I dreamed about flights of stairs.