A weight

So I started working on this podcast with the noblest of intentions. I was going to make a difference for someone. This was going to be THE story. This was what I was made for.

I think this was the ideal that has been holding me back all these years. The thing that bore and nurtured all my fears. All of my self doubt. All of my unrequited yearnings. Alas.

It has all the trappings of a brilliant podcast. For starters, it had the hairs raising on arms, the prickly feeling on my back. I was on to something. Am on to something. This is going to be groundbreaking. Alas.

The voice niggles in the back of my head. The folks over at awkward park are going to get wind of this and I will somehow lose my job. I piss off the wrong kind of people with my digging and end up six foot under myself. Alas.

Or, perhaps, and much more believably, I totally bugger up the entire podcast. Lose the listener and disappoint the very people I am hoping to help. That’s the real bogey man. The woah woah man, as I would call it as a child. Alas.

This is starting to look like prose. Alas. Is this all part of my process. Does it have to be so excruciating? Do I have to dream about it? Obsess over it? Nitpick? Surely not.

Let’s restart this monologue with some positive affirmations. I am a wordsmith, a storyteller with the ability to take the listener on an adventure. I am the best person for the job. I have often asked myself, as I’ve asked the subjects of this podcast, why this particular crime story? I do not know. Except to say that it deeply personal for me. It intersected my life at a critical, vulnerable time.

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