Last night, desperate to meet a deadline I couldn’t put off anymore, I started writing again. Why, why, why did I let fear and performance anxiety block me up for two months. Writing is such a life-giving exercise, and getting back to my story and characters was like CPR to the soul. The fear dissolved and was replaced by joy and flow and energy. Why did I think a break was a good idea?
I revised 4 pages at the beginning of the story. Amidst that joy, I kept hearing the malicious whisper. Revising? Again? Unproductive! Why are you going over old territory when the best thing to do is finishing the novel? You are LATE, Vega. Two months late. You need to catch up and meet your goals.
Silence! Ah, not listening to that devil of Should who cracks the Whip of Expectations. I can’t listen to it anymore, because it sucks away the joy and leaves paralysis. I am amidst my stories and characters again, and that’s all that matters.
I jumped into my story at around 6pm. When I looked up, it was 2am. Four pages only, but four more than yesterday.
One day at a time.