That Damn Book

I’ve been trying to understand why, whenever I boldly announce that I’m finally going to write That Book That I Never Write, I suddenly lose all interest in the subject and just wish I had kept my mouth the hell shut. Because I promised myself that I was not going to allow the inevitable lack of interest stop me this time. I was going to plow through the discomfort and write That Damn Book anyway, goddammit.

I think I’ve figured out another piece of the puzzle: it’s not interest I’m lacking but information, and that scares me. And when I get scared I shut down, which I tend to interpret as disinterest even though deep down I know it’s really terror. That’s when it’s all too easy to be distracted by the temptations of the Internet, email and other people’s problems. I suddenly become a wonderful listener and offer my home to all manner of highly distracting people [who are usually difficult to get rid of after their distraction value has worn off.]

What’s this information that I’m lacking? It’s pieces of the puzzle–because this story is a puzzle; that’s why it’s been bothering me for all these years. I know that I won’t find all the pieces unless I just sit down and write the stupid thing but once in a while, I find one by accident. It just pops into my head and then I think, “Aha! Now I know the answer to everything.” Which lasts long enough for me to blog about it excitedly–and then I get discouraged again because when I actually try to write The Book using this new information, I realize that something important is still missing.

What I keep forgetting is that it’s exactly this process of discovery that makes any work of art compelling to its audience. Isn’t it? I mean, that’s what I love when I read a good book: the discoveries, the little epiphanies and the big ones, the puzzle pieces falling into place, one by one. Don’t you?

But as a writer, I keep thinking that I can’t start writing until I have all those pieces filled in and can see the big picture–which is, of course, impossible. And that makes everything so much easier, doesn’t it, because I’ll never have to do the hard work if I have to wait until I know everything.

I have a terrible habit of stopping everything whenever I feel that hollow, achey feeling in my arms and stomach that fear always brings up. I stop and wait for the feeling to go away, as though it won’t come back the instant I even think about doing whatever it is I’m afraid of–making a phone call, dealing with clutter, or writing a book. The feeling always comes back; that’s a given.

What I need to do is get it through my thick skull is that a little anxiety–or a lot–won’t kill me.