Writing Through Fear

On being afraid

I woke up this morning absolutely terrified of my ideas. I have a few things I want to create and I feel overwhelmed by them. There’s a short story collection, a maybe novel, a television series, this album, eventually, hopefully a gallery photography show. I know I want to do all of these things.

In particular though, I’ve been dipping my toe into a few stories for a collection I thought was already half done and now I’m less sure about it. There are several stories competing for my attention and lately, I’ve been feeling the shadow of Friday Black like a heavy cloak. I want everything I write to be the best thing I’ve ever written. It’s a challenge.

Sometimes I do a walking meditation where the voice in my headphones asks us to, as we walk, note the different colors we see. In my part of the Bronx there’s a wonderful walking path (actually that walking path is on the Heights side of the high bridge, but it’s basically the Bronx). And so, I walk on this path and do what the voice asks. I notice the colors there that are present. There’s the pale blue of the sky, the deep and light browns of trees bark and dirt. Waves of Spring’s green and once in a while, there is purple, which erupts like a jewel from some flowering plant. When you walk and notice the colors around you, it gets easier to be awed by nature’s promise of life, the way she tends to herself, sleeps and wakes faithfully with the seasons. It’s easier to remember you are a part of a cosmic symphony of miracles that have rendered you not only here, but able to appreciate the fact of your hereness.

When students ask me how to navigate fear, it’s easier for me to spit out answers because I’m on stage, or the front of the class thinking about what I’ve done in the past and what is finished and settled. What I often ask of them is to try to name their fears, look at them. Sometimes the closed closet door is terrifying until it is opened, revealing nothing but sweaters and shoes.

So taking my own advice I think I’m afraid of:

A sense that the story I’m working on is too big and too messy and won’t guide the story to thriving, and also maybe be canceled for it lol

Not living up to the expectations I’ve set for myself

Not creating the absolute best writing of my life

Missing a window to do other things in life because I’m so focused on this (by this I mean whatever. This is a kind of vague feeling of running out of time to do … Idk what but it’s the feeling)

Feeling like I should have done more and therefore, am behind.

Retroactive sadness that I didn’t do more while my father was alive.

I worry that no amount of success can heal the people I wish it could. And I fear that despite this, a small part of me still believes that success will heal the people I wish it could, and so, no matter what happens creatively I’ll be unhappy.

I could probably go on for days like this, but even simply writing these fears down disempowers them a little. They become specific ruminations, some of which are silly, some more valid, but generally, they are things that once named I can interrogate more easily and breathe through.

After the color noticing, the guide of the walking mediation asks us to count out 100 steps, slowly. And once again what was familiar and unconscious becomes novel. The fall from heel to midfoot. The push from hard ground. The stretch and puff of claves. To move through the world on your own power is a special thing. It’s easy to take for granted.

The mediation ends with “one thing at a time” as a kind of mantra. It is repeated again and again. One thing at a time. And I think it’s the place I often land on when feeling overwhelmed, anxious or afraid.

One thing at a time.

As writers, especially writers in the initial drafting phase of writing this idea of “one thing at a time” can be a balm for the fear you might be feeling.

You may think the blank page is the source of your fear, but I believe it is the remedy.

When I forget about potential book deals, or whether or not anyone does or doesn’t care what I write. When I set down any ideas I have about previous books and my own personal legacy. When I focus as completely as possible on the sentence in front of me, the work begins to shine. The fear falls away. I notice the colors of the words and am grounded. I make room to be delighted by the sentence, and when I am, I stay there, in that simple magic place, thinking of only this sentence and what word might breathe more life into it.

Even wanting what I’m writing to be the best thing I’ve ever written is a limitation. A path to fear if focused on too much. This story, this sentence, the next word you choose does not care about none of that shit. It’s about here and now. This step. This moment.

One thing at a time.

One thing at a time.