There is Something looming in the dark, can you feel it? It’s a big footed Something. It’s a pointy toothed Something.
The Something is getting closer - you can hear it breathing now – and, as you sit down to write, you can feel it leaning over your shoulder. You feel its fetid breath upon your cheek as it whispers in your ear.
“What are you going to write?”
“I was…,” you reply. But you find that the foggy breath of the Something has permeated your mind.
“I was…,” you repeat feebly. For suddenly it strikes you that the very thought of writing is ridiculous. The idea that you might have an idea worth sharing is laughable.
The Something is grinning.
You recap your pen. You close your notebook’s cover. You think the pointless thoughts of a writer who sat down to work but who has just recapped their pen and closed their notebook.
You do not turn to the Something and slap it across its furry chops. You do not turn to the Something and give it a big hug. You sit in the silence, and you do not move.
The Something sneaks quietly from the room. You did not confront him. You did not embrace him. But you feel better - for now, anyway.
Writing is nothing but controlling anxiety, says Janet Fitch, author of the best seller White Oleander.