There is a first time for everything. Even cliches. And both of these things, beginnings and banalities, frighten me more than death–if my behavior over the past decade or so is any testament. The very thought of producing something that could at any point be perceived as uninteresting, overdone, misguided, or elementary, has nine times out of ten left me frozen with anxiety. Which is why I am almost a decade into my creative career and only now publishing a professional portfolio.

On slower days, which are plentiful in the world of freelance, I regularly imagine presenting myself and my work to the world and saying, "Hey! This is what I think I have to offer," and being answered with contention, or worse, indifference. Even the act of writing this very rough, very casual blog post, pulses dread through my nervous system. I wouldn't say I've spent much time in my adult life longing for affirmation, but I have spent countless hours imagining the opposite, and consequently I know all too well how to be a stain on a couch, a puddle on the floor, an unwavering reflection in a mirror.

Though this website most definitely marks a change in my fear, or my response to it, I can't say that I've overcome anything. I can only say that I've gotten busier, more caught up in the race–my own race. I have less time now to consider my self-worth, or to dispute it. Which isn't to say I've begun to ignore that critical introspective fraction of me. I still meet with him most days, for lunch or a nightcap. But I no longer stay when he insists we enjoy one more cup of coffee together. I let him know that I've made appointments with diligence and discipline, and I let myself know that canceling those is no longer an option.

Now I'm here, on my date with tenacity, taking what little free time I currently have to improvise a blog post, to fill out this site, and to get the wheels spinning again. It's a thick, muddy process, and I'm finding myself repetitively going back to the top and rereading what is already there, what I already know. The blinking cursor, and the infinite–and infinitely changeable–white space that follows waits to be fed. It still leaves me frozen, staring, thinking about moving forward, but not about how to do it. 

As much as I would love to finish this post with some final words of inspiration or understandable arch or bow tie that provides you, the reader, with the feeling of catharsis or encouragement or whatever it is you may rightfully feel you deserve for giving this your time and attention, the most important thing for me right now is to put the final period on the final sentence in the final paragraph of this initial post and click "Publish." This is where I will leave you, not walking away from another incomplete effort in the hopes of some day returning with augmentations, but sharing with you the beginnings of a broader effort to finish what I start, because endings, I was unwilling to admit earlier, frighten me just as much as beginnings.

And with that, here are a few photos of places and moments that have left me spooked, nervous, or filled with an existential dread. Two dimensional artifacts, and four dimensional coordinates to things that scare me.