I’m excited.
My synapses are firing and my pupils are small. I’m cold and sweaty, and over-caffeinated.
I’ve written another book, and it’s all happening so fast. When you write a book it takes ages to gel and work with an editor and get notes and make decisions. Then you wait. You bug your publisher, and you’re super nice but really you’re screaming inside: Get the damn book out!
And then it happens. Launch day.
And you question everything. Am I really a writer? Do I have anything worthwhile to say?
You call your friends. Is the book readable? I hear Costco is hiring...
It’s like teetering on the edge of an abyss. There’s a salient vertigo that smacks you in the face, roughs you up, and forces those doubts to the surface.
At 5:00 A.M. my head is clear. The oatmeal is bubbling on the stove and the coffee dripping. I feed the cat, because yes, I’m that crazy, reclusive cat lady slash writer.
Back in bed, pillows plumped behind me, laptop on my lap (where else), I start the day. The nerves haven’t quite set in but they hover in my psyche waiting for a moment of weakness: something minor I overlooked becomes a looming tower of anxiety.
Such is the life of this writer. Maybe not all writers, but I’m betting many go through a curtain of impenetrable darkness before reaching the light.
The light for me is the new story. It sings a siren song that lures me back to a false state of security. It’s the crafting and shaping that a writer really loves. You get lost in a story and don’t want to leave that cocoon of creativity. Tomorrow doesn’t matter. The next book launch is something to look forward to and your mind conjures a scenario of book tours, bestseller lists, and movie adaptations.
And maybe, just maybe, I’ll stare imposter syndrome down and remember it’s part of the writer’s emotionally taxing but ultimately compelling journey.
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