It’s been a fantastic week. A little rain for the garden. Some sunny days for my enjoyment. No significant pain. I finally feel like I have shaken off the effects of the anaesthetic. I’ve rewritten and edited scenes and almost caught up on the months lost to pre-surgery health hiccups…
The final words loomed. I just had to type them. Just two words.
A wave of relief swept over me. It’s done. My fingers hovered over the keyboard. Twitch. I hesitated.
A voice niggled at the back of my brain. Months of research, a year of writing, rewrites, editing, chasing up translations… With two words my story, and my beloved characters, would no longer be my own. They would belong to the world. To my readers. I had bared my soul. What if I could do better? What if they were rejected?
Have you ever had one of those anxiety dreams? You know, like the one where life is fantastic – right up until you find yourself standing stark naked, transported suddenly into a crowded room and suddenly every single person turns and stares at you?
And there’s nowhere to hide.
My fingers trembled.
And the penny dropped. There was one thing more terrifying than baring my soul and risking rejection: facing a blank page.
My heart sank. What if I can’t come up with another story? What if this was it? The… <gulp> …end?
Another voice whispered in my ear:
Fear is the enemy.
I can’t let it define me.
The enemy of my enemy is my friend.
I had to turn the fear into courage or I would never succeed. I had to finish my story. I had to face the next blank page and new possibilities.
I took a deep breath and pressed the keys: T-H-E E-N-D.