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Slightly scared (staring at my laptop)

A strange title for a post perhaps, but I've managed to postpone (a nicer word than procrastinate) looking at my NaNo efforts for at least a week now. I even happily sat down to do my income taxes first. Priorities and all that. The real truth is: I'm a little bit scared.

The thing is, apart from picking up the wonderful book I truly am reading, there's no reason for me not to open my small laptop and go over my "book" (quotation marks fully intentional). And yet, every time I think of actually doing just that, I feel a fluttering of butterflies in my stomach and my mind produces some other odd job I could also take care of first. What's up with that?

For some reason I feel anxious to open that particular document with the intention of rereading the entire text and making notes to improve it. I might even skip the notes part, dive right in and use delete and backspace more than I should. Or not. I might like what I came up with and just feel the need to add some things here and there. Yeah, right.

I know myself well enough - I think all writers do - to know that I'm critical, especially when it comes to my own work. It has to be just right. And even though I know it's my first real attempt with a head and a tail and a body inbetween, I'm afraid that I've written it in such a daze back in November that when I read it now I might wonder what all the fuss was about.

You see, in November I had an idea that managed to stream from a beginning to an ending. Which is quite a step for me. But other than dividing that idea into manageable chapters within a reasonable time setting, the only thing that counted that month was getting enough words in every day so that stupid little calendar wouldn't go red on me.

But now that I think I should go back and reread, reshape, edit and rewrite, I'm starting to feel nervous. Why, in the name of all that's chocolate, why? It's my story, they are my words, and it's not like I have a publisher waiting at the end of the line, tapping his foot against the linoleum floor, glancing up at the clock that's ticking louder with every passing second that the deadline nears. 

I think my small tickling fears are made up of two parts. One: I'm afraid it really isn't all that and I will want to rewrite more than I currently have time for. Two: I'm afraid that, even for a first attempt, I'll lose my confidence - especially since it's been difficult lately to come up with a different plot for a different book that is in my head somewhere but only in short fragments such as names and a title. Then again, I guess you could say that's more than some people have, right?

Okay. So. No more procrastinating. No more postponing. Not even coffee. Diving right in, as soon as I've posted this. I'll let you know what happens next.

In Translation


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