A couple of days ago, after being clouded by headaches and fuzzy sickness fog, my head started to clear and I felt energized. I thought, This is it, while I still have time.
I tore out a piece of paper, and started scribbling. First few points were the familiar beginnings of the novel I started last November. And then it got to the tricky part. After that scene I stopped at, where am I taking this idea?
At first I thought, This is what happens when you outline. You hit a road block. But somehow, I got around it, and kept writing. Whether it’s nonsense or what, I have no idea, but I kept going. And it felt so good. I could see the foundation, the structure my story could take place. It wasn’t too detailed (I don’t do well with details), but it was enough. It was the map I needed.
When I outlined what is supposedly the last chapter, the triumphant feeling was drowned by something else. Actually, it was more like my heart drowning. Like I was being sucked into something, but at the same time, spat out so far, I could never reach that wanted destination.
The hums of “what if” starts up in my head. I stare at the outline and think, that’s it? That’s what I’m writing?
Initially, I thought I’d actually go back to the work in progress of a novel and continue where I’ve left off. But I couldn’t do it.
I am scared, I realized. I am scared…of writing.
It’s the same old questions: What if the map isn’t enough? What if I write it all and realize what sham of a story this is? What if, what if, what if.
Most writers will tell you that it’s normal. This happens. The cure is to charge on. It doesn’t matter if the writing is bad.
I know that. But the what ifs tell me it might be irreversible mistakes (it probably isn’t).
The ol’ chipper inside me is trying to quell those fears, and I’m still waiting for it to ebb away. It’ll happen, I’m sure. Just…not at this moment.