I made a mistake. I told my friends I was writing a book.
The laughter of other, more seasoned, authors ripples through the cables to my fingers. But it seemed innocent at the time. Why wouldn’t I want to share the excitement of creating new worlds and the characters that inhabit them? Who better to support this quixotic quest than the ones who love me the most?
With hindsight, those were the wrong thoughts. Instead, I should have wondered how I’d hold up under a constant barrage of questions like:
Am I a character in the story?
It doesn’t have any naughty language, does it?
When can I read it?
Why is it taking so long?
You’d think I’d welcome the interest. And, to be honest, I do. But it comes with a significant downside—performance pressure.
No, performance pressure isn’t relegated to the bedroom or athletic field (as an aside, are those two really different?). For me, facing constant questions about my writing slows down the work. I start second guessing every sentence. The anxiety it produces is overwhelming.
I know anxiety can be turned into a positive energy that motivates and drives you to optimal performance. But I’m not there yet. Instead, I start worrying about my process.
Why don’t I crank out stories at a quicker pace?
Do I have enough skill to produce a novel that grips the reader?
Is writing what I’m meant to do?
If I’d been smart and kept my writing on the down-low, I could putz away at my leisure. I’d write when I felt like writing, stare out of the window when I didn’t, and let the story develop in my head until it demanded to appear on the page. Add in sipping mint juleps on the veranda and you have the idyllic life.
Or, maybe not. Without the pressure to perform, to get the book finished and in print, I might never write a single word. After all, I’m a procrastinator. My skills in napping and daydreaming can’t be challenged.
But I don’t have that luxury. My friends are waiting for the story. And even when they don’t verbalize it, I can see the anticipation in their eyes.
So perhaps it wasn’t a mistake to blab about my ambitions. Instead of trying to kill me, as I sometimes claim, my brain knew I needed an external force to push me towards my goal.
Because who wants to disappoint their friends?
Recent Comments