Writing produces in me this fear so profound, that I become the Master Procrastinator, and end up hating myself.
Is this normal? Here I am in Sevilla, southern Spain, the ‘frying pan’ of Europe, or so it is called. It’s August 2018, and I am free, free of responsibilities. I am an empty-nester, adult children flown the nest. I can now roam the world and live as I please.
I have a little bit of saved money in my pocket, enough to rent a gorgeous attic hotel room with a private courtyard garden, enough to buy my beloved cafe con hielo (iced coffee), and eat tortillas and jamon, enough to feel calm and happy, but here I am, in the midst of an existential crisis. About writing!
I have a beautiful story idea, one I am in love with. I have made notes and have started to build the foundation of the story, the structure on which the poetic elements will be woven, but I am terrified and this terror is like a silk handkerchief tied tight around my mouth. It goes something like this:
I am going to die, and death is coming and I need to tell this story because nothing else matters, and I don’t want to vanish and not have told this story. This story is in my mind and no one cares about it at the moment. It’s a story that resonates only with me because it’s in my mind.
Life is beautiful and life is tragic and life is all we have and nothing much matters except the emotional desire to be free and pure and live experiences as they arise.
The internal crisis continues: I have written novels before but can I write others. Why should I bother on this path, when it’s a path littered with disappointment and invisibility? Can I write? Do I have the energy to write? Should I open a shop and be a grocer, after all people will always need to eat but they don’t seem to want to read books anymore.
Can I compete in this world? Do I want to compete in this world? I am getting older. Is it too late for me? I am invisible so perhaps it doesn’t matter. Maybe all that matters is the universe and nature. Does this mean I am becoming religious? I don’t want to become religious because religion scares me. Everything scares me. There is a fork in the road and one says ‘die’, the other part of the fork says ‘live’. Which do I choose?
Humans are complicated and we are our own worst enemies. Just write, my annoying inner voice says. I will try. 1000 words today. Amen.