Why it’s Terrifying to Start Writing Again
By: Amy Culberg
Tags: Fear, Writing Tips, Self-awareness, Self, Writing

Hello Muddah, hello Faddah

Here I am at Camp Grenada

Camp is very entertaining

And they say we'll have some fun if it stops raining (Written by Allen Sherman-Sung by Mel Brooks)

Writing is terrifying, especially if you’re afraid of everything, which I am. I do a bang-up job of acting fierce but come behind the curtain, I’m a panic-stricken fool. But, do you know what’s scarier than writing? Not writing. Because when you stop, it feels like you’ve been thrown off the ship into a tropical cyclone without a life jacket. Not that a lifejacket would be much help in a tropical cyclone, but it would be something, and sometimes something keeps you going.

I grew up singing this satirical song about camp. The first lines are shown above. The song is about a postcard written by a camper to his mother and father (Mudduh and Fadduh). It’s all about the perils of camp. The singing postcard describes poison ivy, missing children, kids eaten by bears, having to read Ulysses. The end of the postcard reveals it’s only been one day. He concludes that all is well now and his parents should disregard his letter.

As an adult, I see this song as a metaphor for adulthood. Days are long. Mondays seem like they should be Fridays. I would love to occasionally write a postcard, asking someone to pick me up and take me out of this one long day, but who would I send it to?

As a writer, the longest day is the day I return to the page after a self-imposed hiatus. You see, writing can feel like an unnecessary act. Like in a cult, once you start questioning those hive beliefs, you want to get the hell out of there. Writing is like that. You shouldn’t question why you’re doing it. It breaks the spell.

Here’s my question. Do you keep writing even when you have nothing to give to the page? Or, do you take breaks so you can reboot, reflect and shift your gaze?

When I keep writing, and there's no light in my attic, I feel like I’m writing one long sentence. Not necessarily a bad sentence, but not a particularly interesting one either. More tortoise than hare.

When I stop to take a break from writing, however, I get scared that I’ll never return. Like I’ve been thrown off a boat into a cyclone and once the storm clears, I can’t see the land or the boat. I am lost.

Once I return to the page, after all this water-treading, I doubt myself. I wonder how I sailed this writing ship before? What muscles did I use to lift these thoughts? What routes did my brain travel to connect the words in my brain to the words on the page? I also doubt the navigation I previously used to find my way. Aren’t all the stars dead? Why was I using them to map my way? I am somewhere, but I still lost.

I used to be a swimmer. When I raced, you got one false start. After two, you were disqualified. The officials realized some people were using the first false starts to their advantage, so now you only get one false start then you’re history. Go back to the locker room, change, and go home.

Writing has a lot of false starts. One false start after the other. No one comes in and says “Get off the block, ya’ done”, but it feels that way. You keep starting over, again and again. Every time you return to the page, you’re at the beginning. You have to remember how to dive off every time.

This week, I took off two days from writing. I still scribbled down ideas and potential titles, but I was off the block. The block was a mile away. It’s always terrifying.

This morning, I walked back towards the starting block. My chest tightened. I stretched out my brain by inhaling and exhaling. I took a swig from my water bottle, which for writers is coffee. I climbed onto the block. Instead of fear-shaking, I bent over and grabbed the part where my toes go. I squeezed it. I said ‘I’m not afraid of you, block.’ I was a little afraid, but what difference did that make? I’m more afraid of not writing than of writing, so I’m just going to stand here until the starter's gun goes off. I can’t see the finish line, but it’s something, and sometimes something keeps you going.