Writing Anxiety

Writing anxiety? Me? You bet, even after years of laying down story after story. As much as I love writing, I’m a nail-biter about it. I love writing, love a story, whether I;m wrii=ting or reading it. It’s the anxiety I can’t any longer.

After all these years, just this morning, I got a hint what I’ve been doing to myself for so long., and I want to quit. Not the writing, just the winding up about it.

A few moments ago, my husband laid a hand on my shoulder and said something about how wired I’d been lately. It’s true, I have been, with Come the Morning’s pub date just three months away and stuff is requiring some exacting effort. Just saying “requires” cramps my gut. Requires? Requires? Not. Nothing’s required. My husband’s hand relaxed as I held forth acknowledging what a mess I’ve been.

So where does that leave things?

Maybe I don’t need to drop ambition at all. I like ambition. I work hard, and I like that I write the sort of stuff I like to read. I am proud of what I write. Here’s what my husband’s warm hand allowed me to realize: it’s a game.Writing’s a GAME! Ah. Ah. A game.

And what’s a game? Something fun, right? Whoa, new concept!

So, how many times do I need to acknowledge and break this old anxiety habit, replace it with something else? Twenty times? Thirty? Can a habit of years be broken in twenty or thirty rethinkings? It’s got to be. The old way has pestered my life and my husband’s long enough.

It’s a game. It’s a game. It’s a game. It’s a game. Not sure this counts toward the twenty or thirty but it’s a start.