After an impressive first day of writing last Wednesday, I have not written a single word. I was enthusiastic. And then I felt like a fraud for thinking I could write anything worth reading. And then I felt lethargic. Numbness soon followed. And all of it, I know, is due to fear.
I am afraid to write. I am afraid of what will happen if I do. I am afraid that no one will give a rats red behind whether I do or not.
So this morning, I consulted an expert.
“After I get up it takes me an hour and a half of fiddling around before I can get up the courage and nerve to go to work.” James Jones.
There is some comfort in knowing that other writers struggle with self-doubt. It encourages me to push past it, but it doesn’t really give me the tools to do so. It’s one thing to say you’re going to do something, but if you don’t know how to do it, you’re still stuck. My solution for that is to pretend.
I am going to find my happy place. And then I am going to pretend that I have courage and nerve. I’m going to pretend that it matters what I write. And I’m going to keep pretending until all of those things are true.