I’m not a risk-taker. At least, I don’t think of myself as one. I would never jump off of or out of…anything, unless, possibly, it was on fire. I don’t gamble because I don’t see the fun in handing my money over to a faded, glitzy place with an all-you-can-eat shrimp and coronary buffet.
But those risks aren’t the only ones in life.
Writing, itself, is a risk. Whenever you write, you are putting a piece of yourself out into the world, leaving it exposed to the elements, even if you are the only one to see it. When you share that piece, you allow people to ooh and ah over your babies. But you also give them the chance to call them ugly and make mean memes about them. (The internet is a weird place).
Exposing your inner workings is really the core of any art form. If art says nothing about humanity — especially the artist’s humanity — it’s usually tough to connect to it. But sharing that is difficult.
It’s risky.
So even if we have no desire to skirt a mountain (or not quite skirt a mountain) in a wingsuit, or drive a race car at 300 miles an hour, or eat a long expired yogurt, we are all risk takers. Just being brave enough to share our view on our corner of the world is, itself, a risk.
And one well worth taking.
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A Bit to Read 
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