There’s an emotional place when you desperately want to be a writer but either don’t or can’t seem to write anything, where it feels like if you can just get a draft finished that it will all be over. It will be good. It will be smooth sailing from there.

Perhaps, for some, it is.

But though I am ecstatic to have finally finished a draft of something, I can’t help fearing that it was all a fluke. That the burst of energy that resulted in the finished draft was a divine wind that passed right through me and on to someone else, leaving me scrambling after it forever more.

Basically, I’m terrified that I’ve written the only thing I will ever write, and every attempt from here on out will be doomed to failure like all my attempts before.

For the most part, I can’t fully answer this fear until I’ve actually written something else, which I have of course not yet been able to do. That includes potential sequels, as well, which I have vaguely planned but not yet actualized.

But just as fearing the doubt should not stop me from believing I can fight it, fearing failure should not stop me from trying. While it is comforting to know that I, theoretically, can write a novel, I don’t think it will ever feel guaranteed. And that’s just a part of the fear and doubt and resistance that come with the artistic process that we, for some reason, love.

So I will just keep trying, and keep trying, as long as it takes. And if I only ever manage to write one book (and it never goes anywhere), well, that’s okay. But it’s ultimately up to me.

It seems like for every new stage of this process, there’s a new flavor of fear waiting to make me hesitate and doubt. At least it keeps it exciting…? 🙂