Phobia noun pho∙bia \ foe-bee-a

Actually, I’m okay with bees but those wasps, yellow jackets, mud daubers—whatever they’re called—freak me out.

Speaking of fears, take Steven King—but don’t keep him—that guy writes horrors few humans can possibly survive, let alone think of: Carrie, The Secret Window, The Shining…

Now that I think about it, I have an irrational fear of science fiction writers too. What if I sit by such a warped genius in say, an airplane? Yikes! (Yes, Ken. I know you write sci-fi.)

Why in the world is that movie, The Time Machine so popular? Bad movies, a whole different level of anxiety.

What about those people who write literary fiction and those who are professional poets? How in the world can I face them, let alone actually engage in a conversation?  Smile, nod, “Beautiful,” repeat. Smile, nod, “Beautiful,” will certainly show my lack of knowledge of the genre. Never mind the obvious inexperience with a thesaurus.

Two crows, Pete and Repeat were sitting on a fence. Pete fell off, who was left? Consequently my phobia of bad jokes.

Then there’s—Holy eight legs, Batman!  That’s a huge…found a big boot to stomp it, but lost track of the hairy, speedy little devil.

Now, where was I?

Then there are snakes. As a child, I loved being around gardener snakes here in Colorado. No lie. Then one day, deep in the Ozarks as friends and I sat on a river bank a long, thin thing rapidly sashayed across the water, showing off the inside of its mouth. My so-called friends ran off and left me captive in the life-threatening situation. That cottonmouth snake pretty much did in my love of reptiles.

Oh sure, then there’s the fear of failure. Fear of success. What?

What happens if I write and sell a good book? Good books? (Success and self-defeating behavior often travel side by side, at least in my world.)

Having actually finished THREE manuscripts, stories, possible books, future fame and fortune endeavors, I then thought about edits and rewrites followed by my critique group. (Insert uncanny music.)

Abruptly, I rediscovered false safety also known as putting off today what can wait until tomorrow, trepidation, apprehension…. My mind immediately puts out an SOS to my body in such situations.

What the…?

Dang spider. Where’d I put the boot? Hairy thing is fast.

Which brings me to thinking about that carnival ride, the spider? Octopus? Yuck.

Moving on. But now I can’t get roller-coasters off the brain. Oh, gee whiz…s l o w l y going up that big hill…DOWN! The stinking bar that’s supposed to keep me in sure feels loose. Crap, more height. A loop, who the, what the, WHY incorporate that in a ride? A loop. I don’t want to be sick in public.

Great! There’s one stall available in the women’s bathroom. An OUT OF ORDER sign is duct-taped across the seat. And there’s no TP.

So, returning to the fear of failure, the fear of success thing. When my mind puts out an SOS to my body regarding such situations, I am entangled in the fear that I’ll never eat chocolate again. I don’t know the correlation between the two, but I rush to the store:

Candles and Diet Pepsi are optional

Now I have to worry about a diet again. If…dang spider. Where’d it go now? Oh, my head itches.

Harry has escaped repeated efforts of photos and the bottom of my boot again.