It’s not just a blank page, it’s a black hole. A dark, swirling brainspace of sparkly ideas and jagged problems. I lie in bed at night too excited to sleep. I jot down phrases, quotations, character names, questions. I order more books from the library. I Google.
But I haven’t started writing. In fact, the very thought of starting writing fills me with dread. I will never, EVER be able to do justice to this fantastic idea. I’m not brave enough to begin. I am not a talented enough writer to write this story, period.
I’m too tired, I tell myself. After all, it was only last week that I hit ‘send’ on my completed manuscript. My agent hasn’t even read it yet. I will probably have a year’s worth of revisions to undertake. I won’t have time for this new project, anyway, I tell myself. Rest awhile, I tell myself. Take a break, get your head out of books, for a change! With my head out of the books I am happy for around forty-eight hours, and then I feel anxious and ill.
So here I am, back at my desk, staring into the black hole again–the sparkly bits, the jagged bits. It feels crazy to hurl myself in there without at least a spacesuit of some kind, some equipment with which to navigate. A ball of string to unwind, at least, to find my way back. But I’m going in anyhow. See ya.