I’ll be honest. I’m complicated. I worry about a lot of things. I over-analyze. I dissect. (Nod your head sympathetically toward my husband. He’ll appreciate the gesture.)
Sometimes I feel like I’ve got a whole universe jammed inside my skin. I’m stretched tight like a sausage with all the stuff I think about. (Bonus points if you know why I selected that image.)
I’m not going to tell you what I worry about. Mostly it’s boring, cliche, or embarrassing. But I will tell you that the worrying is analogous to my writing process. In the same way I might fret about my kids’ future, I turn the elements of my story around and around. I twist and tangle and ultimately untangle the narrative threads. Because I’m complicated, I write complex characters in shifting universes. I like to think that the personal anxiety has a purpose that is made manifest in the writing.
But the curious thing (and the point of this post) is that I never feel anxious about writing the book. Isn’t that weird? I worry about all these things, but there’s a deep down secure knowledge that I can write the book. I will serve the story. And I’m always learning how to do it better. Cool, huh?