So here I am. Again. This morning, I wrote for about an hour, and then I took a break to draw and collage to get my mind loosened up. (I am trying to be open to the fact that I work better in shorter bursts alongside creative activities.) And then, guess what? I had, like a Major Panic Attack. I had to go out for a brief walk. As I strode along, I was thinking to myself: “I am a failure. My writing sucks. So do my drawings. I will never amount to anything.”
And then, (thank goodness), part of me was like: ‘Whoah there, honey. Looks like you just bought a one-way ticket to Crazytown. Let’s jump this train and go somewhere else.’
So I turned around and went home. I opened the window, took off my shoes, and sat down on the floor with my computer. (For some reason, sitting on the floor is more comfortable for me. It helps me to think better.) And I felt the breeze on my skin, saw the light streaming in, heard dogs barking in the distance and birds singing in the trees outside my window. And this is what I did:
I reminded myself that
A) I am not such a big deal.
B) The fate of the world does not rest on my shoulders.
C) I am pursuing my dream of being a writer, and that is AWESOME, no matter whether or not I achieve conventional success with it.
D) I don’t have to give credence to my fears. My fears don’t deserve that sort of recognition.
And then, taking a deep breath, I wrote the next scene in my novel.