Feeling pretty overwhelmed at the moment, and as a writer, that’s a dangerous state to be in. (Not the good kind of dangerous, either.) If I start thinking about how I should turn off Law & Order: SVU and go close myself in the study to write, I start feeling guilty for not doing exactly that. If I start thinking about all the work I have to do on Bailey’s story, all the revisions I have to do and the plot points I haven’t even hit yet, it starts to feel like it’s too big. Like I can’t tell the story; like I don’t have it in me to do so. When the truth is, I know I’m the only one who can. It’s the same for everything else I write, too, and all the things I want to finish, including the things I haven’t even started. And, thinking about all of them, it feels like there are too many and I will drown in these worlds I want to swim in.
It’s scary. Terrifying, even, because then I can think about what comes next. Finishing? Revising? Publishing? I’ve only just scratched the surface of this path I want to walk for my life, and suddenly it feels too long, too winding, with not enough reward to justify my going this way. (I know it’s not about the reward; the reward should be the art itself. But the world doesn’t account for it the same way the artist does.)
So then you can say, “It doesn’t matter what the world says. It’s what you say.” The same words I say to other people. But giving advice is often much easier than taking it, even when it’s your own. Yes; I know it is what I say to myself that matters, more than what anybody else says to me. But no matter what I say, if I feel scared, if I feel overwhelmed—what am I supposed to do?
I guess I’m supposed to publish this, and then go write the next thing.