Attempting to write

I write like I gossip, scared shitless someone is listening, whispering when the person in question is a 1000 miles away, on another continent.
My husband thinks it's an adorable if neurotic quirk, but I know better. It's called, having no balls.

I hear Erica Jong in my head, saying "Creativity demands nothing less than all you have. It means revealing murderous rage, the marksman behind the writing desk, the inner demons that confound us all." (-from her novel, Fear of Fifty)

My Jewish mother is looking. And the bible thumping army wives are all around me, trying to get me to go to Bible Study.
I am surrounded by real & imaginary critics. And the imaginary ones are the worst.

But clever little me has found an anonyomous creative outlet because I am a coward.
I still care what people think & that is such an unflattering characteristic in a potential writer.