Tag: writing anxiety

T&A

Yes, it’s my day’s T&A moment. I’m at the coffee shop. Have my QSM (quad shot mocha for the novices). The computer is back, up and running. Time to write like crazy.

But T&A haunt me. Trepidation that I won’t be able to pick up and write either NIP (novel in progress, for the uninitiated – I was a military zombie in a previous thread of this life, and we like acronyms). I’ve been away from them for almost three weeks. Anxiety that writer’s block will strike, that my writing spirit has been consumed by zombie lethargy, is riding me hard. (See, that’s the T&A for those who like more directness – Trepidation & Anxiety.)

So I’m sortofkindaalittlebit putting it off. Sipping mocha. Observing the coffee shop’s fauna and flora. Eavesdropping on loud talkers. Admiring the mountains out the windows. Waiting for magic to scar my forehead and power me into action.

But after a time of it, of walking the forest of what could go wrong, what will go wrong, of facing a fear that opening my writing will reveal a hack — you know, standard writer angst — I take a deep breath and move the mouse.

No matter what’s in there or what happens, there must be a beginning.

Time to begin.

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Sour Grapes, Writing Ed.

Yeah, it’s like, bleah. Like work. Ugh.

Published Road Lessons with Savanna this week. It acquired the attention an elephant bestows on an ant. Anxiety and conflicts arise. Depression. Acceptance, the need to be patient, the requirement to market the book. It takes time, I tell myself, and scream back, “Time? Time?” Because time, you know, stirs fear, impatience, anxieties, as I await time’s passage. Time can be a right cruel bully.

That’s my background moodiness as I return to copy-editing Everything Not Known today. A quarter million words, seven hundred plus pages. I have completed editing on seven chapters. 21,000 words.

Oh, boy. This is going to take forever.

Forever? Could you be exaggerating?

Trying to encourage myself, I say, “How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time.”

“Shut up, you moron,” I answer. “Keep your platitudes to yourself.”

I enjoy the novel, which is good, happy news, even, as it was written with me in mind as the audience. That’s the only audience I understand, so I kowtow to me and my taste. I’ve tried writing and editing to others’ preferences but their guidance, feedback, and input, is confusing and conflicting. So, responding with great insight and maturity, I replied, “Whatever,” and write for myself.

The snarky corner of me notes with withering contempt, “Who do you expect to read your book if you write if for yourself, you marketing moron?”

Ready for that query, I tell myself, “Good to hell.” So there.

Enjoying the novel does help copy-editing it, but this isn’t my favorite pastime, so I chaff, complain and offer childish whines about what I’m doing and most do. Intellectually, I know, yeah, this must be done, and this, too, shall pass, and other pithy, worn encouraging sentiments. Intellectually, I can see into myself and see all the nuances of living and existing irritating me and the ridiculousness of my complaints.Intellectually, I know enough of myself to know it’s part of my cycles of spirit, attitudes and emotions to drift into the dark side. I know I’ll emerge from it in a few days.

Intellectually, I know it’s all human nature.

Intellectually, I still tell myself to go to hell. Then I drink the coffee, take a deep breath, and play a game.

Then I go to work.

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