‘I don’t like to write, but I love having written.’

Unknown Female American Magazine Writer of the 1930s

At 5 am, I woke up on my mother’s sofa bed and checked my emails. I knew I was writing this morning, and I don’t usually check my emails before I write, but this morning, I just…did. My editor wrote that she’d like to have sight of my next book as soon as possible.

That’s why I don’t usually check my emails.

As I went to shower, I got The Fear. I wouldn’t be able to write the manuscript in time. I couldn’t remember how to write at all, actually. It was the wrong place, the wrong time, I was too tired. It was ridiculous, trying to write a novel in a busy coffee shop. It wouldn’t work. There was no way it would work. All this travelling can’t be good for me, as an artist. Why had I left my shed? I can’t possibly be a proper artist if I didn’t take it a bit more seriously…

 My hands were literally shaking when I opened up the file. I thought I might throw up. The anxiety was thrumming in my veins. The relief, which came about halfway into the second try of the fourth page, a good two hours later, was amazing.

I laughed in delight at the voice, how much I love the character, the whole situation of the plot. Having written really is wonderful…

Being a published author doesn’t make The Fear any better. In fact, it actually makes it worse…people are, as I wrote in my last post, actually watching. Experience does help, though. I know I’ve had The Fear before. I know I’ll have it again.

I just hope it’s not tomorrow.