On Friday, I was sitting around, wearing ass-grooves into my chair while chatting on IM with Jana and Crystal, when it dawned on me: we needed a theme for May's World Tour. And not one of us had any good idears as to what it should be.

I went off to vacuum, which is what I do when I'm Deeply Thinking (okay, sometimes I eat tater tots)(potatoey goodness seems to make my mind all free and shit.) It dawned on me, mid-vacuum-session that this month, it was time to confront our fears.

Shit, I thought. Now it's time for me to figure out what I am afraid of. Blech.

Sure, I'm afraid of earwigs, the color orange and the Facts of Life Theme Song, but really, without some extensive CBT therapy, I'm not sure I could fix any of those. At least, not in a month.

However, I do have something I am terrified of. Something I didn't admit to myself. Something I had to both confront and let go.

(no not Little Debbie Treats, you assholes)

I'm deeply afraid of failure.

When I started Band Back Together, I wasn't terribly afraid of what would happen. I had enough help behind the scenes to know that while I wasn't sure what this site would be, it was probably a good thing. And if it fell flat on it's ass, well, I could always use it as a second blog.

I was afraid. I was very afraid. But I also believed in what we were doing. I believed in what this blog could, given some time and love, could become.

That's what buoyed me through the times when I was plagued by self-doubt. It still is what gets me by on the weeks we seem to have fewer posts, fewer tweets and retweets, and fewer comments. What other measure of success (besides a glorious ass callous) do we - those who work many hours each day to make this site better - have?

(answer: stiff fingers)

But you know the one thing that's haunted me; the one thing that's made me feel like a sham, a fraud, a flash-in-the-pan has nothing whatsoever to do with Band Back Together.

It's my books.

All those words I carefully planned to string into sentences and paragraphs; they bring me the deepest shame and touch my innermost fears. Those books exist to remind me that I am a failure.

Suddenly, I'm twenty and looking at my life, which appears to be long and full of choices I don't want to make. I'm taken back to Nursing School again, a bizarre autistic baby at home, feeling like I'll never manage a job or a career or find anything that truly gets my blood pumping.

The endless stream of self-doubt rings in my ears:

Will I manage to sell my books?

What happens if I do?

Why would anyone want to read them?

Will I be able to handle it if no one buys them?

Will I be able to handle it if I never sell them at all?

I don't know.

That's the simple answer. I don't know.

But I can't let that fester anymore. The fear of failing cannot stop me.

This month I will start on my books. When they are done, I will move forward with them. If I have to print them at home and sell them door-to-door, that is what I'll do.

I will take this project to 11 and I will be successful. I don't know how, but I will.

I cannot properly fail until I try. And I cannot try unless I accept that I may fail.

It's time to get my Super Becky Overachiever Pants on and get to work.

I got some books to write.