Break On Through
Jun. 24th, 2008 09:01 pmAll right, well...
Not... all right.
I had a mother of a panic attack, to the point where I had no idea what my next thought or movement would be. Adam and I were in the kitchen. We were talking. I felt that sudden rush of disorientation, unreality, so I excused myself and ran upstairs to take my epilepsy meds. Didn't help I got to the top of the stairs and doubled over, struggling to breathe. All of a sudden the world seemed viciously small and was going to eat me. I made it down the stairs and ran into Adam, and he asked what was wrong, and I couldn't speak, just kept gasping, one arm wrapped around my midsection, and he came to me and whispered, "Oh, sweetie, come here, come here, baby, come with me..." (And he rarely calls me pet names unless he's comforting me like this) And he took me into the living room and we sat on the couch and I cried. And I cried. And I buried my face in his chest and cried. I cried like something had broken inside me and everything was bursting forth and I couldn't control it at all. And he asked, "What is it, honey? Tell me. What's wrong?" And I couldn't tell him because I couldn't find the words.
And that, hah, that's the main problem, huh?
All the stresses had built up: My fibromyalgia flares and seizures, Adam's slipped back, Charlotte's recent abdominal surgery, the kitten's eye infection, my money issues, my writing.
My writing.
It was about my writing, above all else.
Adam and I had talked earlier in the month, and he wrangled a confession out of me that I couldn't find the words to push into the next chapter, and he asked outright how much of my heart was in this. And I guess I didn't realize until just now, how much my heart really is in this. To the point where I may be stalling because I don't want to finish it, don't want to give it up. And that's insane.
So, we came up with a compromise for my writerbrain. I would write -- and finish -- one chapter per week. At the end of that week, Adam would take me to Bruster's Ice Cream Shop. Here's the thing about Bruster's ice cream: It. Is. Unbelievable. Seriously. Oh my gods. Full, thick, rich creamy, addictive. Bruster's is the pinnacle of ice cream. I have yet to taste ice cream better than Bruster's.
So, yeah, my reward.
If I don't finish that weekly chapter? No chocolate. At all. No sweets. No treats. Not until I finish the chapter, and the next chapter. Doesn't seem like much, but I adore chocolate and sweets. I have them at least twice a week.
One chapter a week, maybe two. Not that hard, right? Even with writer's block, right? Even though I know exactly where the story and plot need to go, I. Can't. Make. The. Words. Come.
FUCK.
No. I can do this. One chapter a week. Done fine.
What I need to do, writerbrain, is stop going back to edit every other chapter, good gods. I just need to finish. I need to have it DONE.
Then I can have the panic attack about sending it off to agents and such.
Right? Right?
Still shaky.
This doesn't seem like much to most people, I know, I know. Writer has trouble writing, panic attacks, big fucking deal.
But a big fucking deal to me. I'm scared, people, I am so fucking terrified.
It'll get better.
One chapter a week.
The book is close to finished, anyway.
Breathe.
Breathe.
I actually feel a little better. Cleansed. I haven't had this happen in many years.
Breathe.
Breathe.
*gets tissues*
Not... all right.
I had a mother of a panic attack, to the point where I had no idea what my next thought or movement would be. Adam and I were in the kitchen. We were talking. I felt that sudden rush of disorientation, unreality, so I excused myself and ran upstairs to take my epilepsy meds. Didn't help I got to the top of the stairs and doubled over, struggling to breathe. All of a sudden the world seemed viciously small and was going to eat me. I made it down the stairs and ran into Adam, and he asked what was wrong, and I couldn't speak, just kept gasping, one arm wrapped around my midsection, and he came to me and whispered, "Oh, sweetie, come here, come here, baby, come with me..." (And he rarely calls me pet names unless he's comforting me like this) And he took me into the living room and we sat on the couch and I cried. And I cried. And I buried my face in his chest and cried. I cried like something had broken inside me and everything was bursting forth and I couldn't control it at all. And he asked, "What is it, honey? Tell me. What's wrong?" And I couldn't tell him because I couldn't find the words.
And that, hah, that's the main problem, huh?
All the stresses had built up: My fibromyalgia flares and seizures, Adam's slipped back, Charlotte's recent abdominal surgery, the kitten's eye infection, my money issues, my writing.
My writing.
It was about my writing, above all else.
Adam and I had talked earlier in the month, and he wrangled a confession out of me that I couldn't find the words to push into the next chapter, and he asked outright how much of my heart was in this. And I guess I didn't realize until just now, how much my heart really is in this. To the point where I may be stalling because I don't want to finish it, don't want to give it up. And that's insane.
So, we came up with a compromise for my writerbrain. I would write -- and finish -- one chapter per week. At the end of that week, Adam would take me to Bruster's Ice Cream Shop. Here's the thing about Bruster's ice cream: It. Is. Unbelievable. Seriously. Oh my gods. Full, thick, rich creamy, addictive. Bruster's is the pinnacle of ice cream. I have yet to taste ice cream better than Bruster's.
So, yeah, my reward.
If I don't finish that weekly chapter? No chocolate. At all. No sweets. No treats. Not until I finish the chapter, and the next chapter. Doesn't seem like much, but I adore chocolate and sweets. I have them at least twice a week.
One chapter a week, maybe two. Not that hard, right? Even with writer's block, right? Even though I know exactly where the story and plot need to go, I. Can't. Make. The. Words. Come.
FUCK.
No. I can do this. One chapter a week. Done fine.
What I need to do, writerbrain, is stop going back to edit every other chapter, good gods. I just need to finish. I need to have it DONE.
Then I can have the panic attack about sending it off to agents and such.
Right? Right?
Still shaky.
This doesn't seem like much to most people, I know, I know. Writer has trouble writing, panic attacks, big fucking deal.
But a big fucking deal to me. I'm scared, people, I am so fucking terrified.
It'll get better.
One chapter a week.
The book is close to finished, anyway.
Breathe.
Breathe.
I actually feel a little better. Cleansed. I haven't had this happen in many years.
Breathe.
Breathe.
*gets tissues*
no subject
Date: 2008-06-25 01:44 am (UTC)Just keep in mind:
Finishing a book doesn't mean you stop working with the characters. There's always revision, and very often other stories worth telling. And finishing it, really finishing it, is one of the best feelings in the world.
Just take it one scene at a time. You'll get there.
no subject
Date: 2008-06-25 01:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-25 02:19 am (UTC)It'll come. Deep breaths, relax, drink in the moment, then plunge on in.
no subject
Date: 2008-06-25 01:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-25 03:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-25 01:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-25 03:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-25 03:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-25 03:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-25 12:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-26 09:20 am (UTC)hang in there - you can do this (and need to as well from what i've seen)
writing
Date: 2008-06-26 03:35 pm (UTC)feel better.be well.I give a shit about you!
Re: writing
Date: 2008-06-26 06:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-26 06:33 pm (UTC)