I have been a fearful writer ever since I had children. I had a good decade where every fearless & reckless idea that arose from my belly came straight out on stage...it was a constant birthing in front of anyone and everyone...didn't give one hoot who might be offended or intimidated. I had nothing to lose.
I started writing in a journal when I was 10. I have almost 40 volumes of words and more words. Most is dribble and some of it is so much better than I am. And what I miss is the process of transforming one image or feeling into something related but not a replicate. To run from my mind is a futile exercise anyway...it won't leave me alone. I either live with it all between my ears or let my mouth or fingers act as a release valve.
I read so much and truly I get aggravated I can't read more. In the middle of SEVEN books right now...none of which have anything to do with one another. Reading is a much more insular activity that writing and doesn't require a lifting of the mask. In fact, I'd argue it helps you craft new ones...
One thing I want to mention in this little entry is that the unexpected kindnesses are enough to reduce me to tears. Strangers giving loving looks, offering their help, loved ones sacrificing something small--the willingness of others to give when there is no benefit to them for doing so. It is almost as powerful as love. I believe kindness is like a cousin to hope...it reminds us that any wretched state or individual is as temporary as a passing cloud and soon enough there will be a unobstructed ray of sun causing your eyes to close in restoration.