It’s really interesting to write the first few pages of a book again. There’s this tingling sensation, in my wrists and my fingertips, and the hesitancy that comes with it, urging me to write with sharp, scared breaths. I haven’t written the first page of a novel in three years. It comes with a certain fear, a fear which was never there before because I was so used to the captivating words and fonts, and I was not afraid of the task I had set for myself, ahead of me, because I did not know the true extent of what it was.
Now, I am scared, so scared, because I do not know if I can again embark on the three-year journey that was my novel. It was an amazing journey, but it was so, so tiring, and it took so much of my effort, the effort that could have been spent on other projects, to write that 120 page MS word document.
I don’t love that document. In fact, I am so afraid of it. I’m scared that it will not turn out to be what I want it to be. I am scared of what I have never done before. I am a writer. I have pasted the words, “The End,” on many short stories–is a novel really that different? But I have never edited.
Editing is diving into the unknown. Editing is taking my first draft, my sweet little child, and tearing it apart on a whim, because I want to. And I’m scared. I’m scared of the journey that will take me there, because I am afraid of the unknown. Humans, as people, are afraid of the unknown. That is why we build spaceships and machinery and things that can tell the time–because we are afraid. We are afraid of everything that we don’t know, so we must know what it is.
And I am so afraid.
Don’t be afraid,