a few nights ago, i attended another meeting of the fledgling writers' circle. the topic was fear. our voices rose in turn, one after the other, as the deepening dusk darkened the perimeter of the room like a greek chorus shrouded black.
i'm afraid you won't like my writing, and therefore, won't like me. i'm afraid that what i have to say won't be good enough, interesting enough, funny or brilliant enough. i'm afraid i will never measure up to the expectations of my family, my peers and most of all myself. i'm afraid that i will discover i am not shakespeare. i'm afraid i will never have enough time/treasure/freedom to create. i'm afraid i'm just not that good. i'm afraid i'm wasting my time. i'm afraid that what i write will never see the light of day/find an audience/touch a reader. i'm afraid, i'm afraid, i'm afraid.
me, too, i kept thinking, though i am not sure anyone there believed me. and yet, now, with a manuscript under review since january, and so many projects competing for my attention, i feel almost unmoored, unanchored, and alone. without a set of characters in my head to keep me company, as well as all the demands on my attention in Real Space, i feel adrift, somehow, as if the chaos i so joyfully embraced has betrayed me, leaving me rudderless amidst a suddenly silent sea.
what next, i think. what now?
when i go to that place where my writing begins, i see a dark pool of water ringed with rocks that bears a superficial resemblance to the Hag's Sea in my silver series. but unlike that green and ever-roiling water, the surface of this pool is completely still, the water very black. if i want the story - any story - i will have to dive in. i hesitate, afraid that everything, and nothing, might be there.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.