anxiety, worry, concern, thoughtfulness: all are parts of my general makeup. I think things through, as much as is feasible, then I decide and move on with my decision. Sometimes, after moving on with the decision, I realize that the decision was the wrong one, or I have grown in a way that makes a previous path one I’d like to fork away on a new path. Thinking things through is part of who I am, but rarely am I paralyzed by the making of a decision or an inability to get started.
until now. I’m working on a project I find fascinating, one that seems tailor-made for me. A novel, not too long, that starts from a true story. I’m good with facts and easily carried away with putting my own spin on them. The story from 167 years ago about some illustrious doctors about town grave robbing in order to perform an illegal autopsy for fun has some serious potential for good storytelling. I’m enthusiastic and excited and researching to my academic heart’s delight.
there are charts and character lists that mix fact with the fictional direction I see the story going, plenty of details I know I likely won’t need but have in case I do. I sit down to type, I bring pen to paper, I plug in a microphone to dictate, and I am paralyzed. I want this so badly, I’m so concerned that I won’t make it good and honest and true that I can not write it.
situations swirl through my mind. Bits of dialogue are tucked away alongside an expansive willingness to allow the characters their freedom. Everything tries to claw its way out…but my fingers will not work. I don’t know if I’m putting too much pressure on myself. I don’t know if I’ve become too stagnant in a life that has come far too easy for far too long. The I don’t know bit is the bit that terrifies me the most, but I think I’ve a slightly better understanding for why brilliant writers drink.
this is it, though. This is the project I want, the one that wants me. I am doing this, and in doing this I hope that some time, some one, will spend a few hours reading it and being transported out of their own life, even if only once every few pages.