Writing Through Fear

I’ve recently increased my writing goals. I’m carving out two-hour blocks of time to write — any longer and my brain fries — aiming for 6,000 words a week. That’s on top of running my own business in its second year and, you know, having a life.

Each month this year, I set wordcount goals for writing my book, and then…just…didn’t. Or had a fit of inspiration once and then didn’t go back again for weeks. Back in 2023, I spent more than a year world-building. Then I started writing…for a month. Then four months passed without typing a word. I went back to world-building, but eventually I realised it had become a kind of subconscious procrastination. Why? That old chestnut: Fear. Fear that it wouldn’t be good enough. If I didn’t write it, I wouldn’t have to face how terrible it might be.

Meanwhile, time is going by so fast.

My baby is taller than me.
My parents are slowing down.
My skin is lined where it once was smooth.
The greys are showing in my hair.

I don’t have time to waste. I don’t want to regret never finishing my book — never holding it in my hands, printed and real. I have to. I am compelled to.

I’ve been scared for so many years, but I don’t want to live small and full of “what ifs.” Looking back, I’ve never regretted the things I’ve done — only the things I didn’t do. So even if this fails, it won’t be another regret. It will be an adventure. And…what if it works?

Those fears matter less to me these days than the desire to squeeze as much out of life as I can. And so: 6000 words per week.

I still walk that inspiration wasteland sometimes.

I still reread a draft and type in caps: THIS IS SHIT, WHAT ARE YOU THINKING? At times I still feel too tired to try. The 3am doubts still come: What if nobody wants to read it? What if they think it’s dreadful? What if I become a laughing stock?

Hi, amygdala. I know you’re just trying to keep me safe. Remember all the things I have overcome? The terrors that never took material form? I’ll be okay. I’m taking the steering wheel now.

When I get my head on right, it starts to happen.

Most of the time lately, when I give myself that two hour writing block of late, I remember the sense of urgency, I remember that I can do hard things, and that I don’t want this to be another regret. I exhale, and then it is like the energy unblocks. I’ll be talking with a friend and suddenly a plot challenge untangles itself. Or I’ll sit down at the keyboard and the story just pours out of me, faster and faster, the outside world fading as characters take shape. Once, while working on my plot plan, I realised exactly how my book would end — and burst into tears. Just the other day I stumbled across a song that perfectly captured the mood of my prologue. I cried again — tears of gratitude and joy that this story chose me, that I get to birth it into the world and watch it grow.

There is very little like that feeling. It is second only to the eternal joy my son brings me.

So yes. I see you — all of you out there with your doubts, your silent flashing cursors, your 3am demons.

But when you are a writer — when you are compelled to write — there is no point giving in to any of that. Remember the breakthroughs, the moments when scenes write themselves, where your characters do something unexpected that explains a plot problem you were stuck on.

Writing through fear is hard.

But it’s what you’re here to do.
And it’s what I’m here to do, too.

P.S. I’m setting up my author Substack right now, and I’ll share the link as soon as it’s live. I’d love for you to join me there — a space to share more of my writing journey, and to talk together about the ups and downs of the creative life.