Hello, my name is Walt and I have . . . ?

Damnit.  There’s no word for it.

No word for “Fear of Writing a Novel.”

But, let me tell you, I’m loaded with it.  Loaded with that Fear. 

 You see, because my darling wife has more faith in my writing abilities than I have in them myself, I’ve always had my own space in which to write. 

When we were first married and living in a house with no stove, no bed, no couch, and not even any functioning plumbing, she made sure that I had my own area in which to write my stories.  When we moved to a nicer, but somewhat smaller place, she crammed her stuff into amazingly small spaces so that I would always have a typewriter available when I wanted to write.  And then, when we moved to our current home, she immediately designated one of the bedrooms as my study, my own area in which to write. 

She made that part easy.

I keep making all of the other parts hard.

Eight months ago, I turned off my writing computer, stood up from my writing chair, and walked out of my writing study.  I shut the door behind me and said to myself: 

“The next time I sit down in there, I’m going to have my head right.  I’m going to start a new novel and I’m actually going to write it.”

Today, I decided it was time.  No, that’s not right.  It’s past time. 

I cracked open the door to my study with butterflies in my stomach and a thin, sickly sheen of sweat on my brow.  The room was not as I had left it.  The holidays had come and gone and at some point, somebody had decided that the normal accumulated junk mail and magazines should be stored in my study.  And who could blame them?  It was just wasted space.  I certainly wasn’t using it productively.  Hell, I wasn’t using it at all.

That’s not to say I haven’t done any writing in the past several months, because I have.  I build and service computers for a living, so access to another word processor wasn’t a problem.  I’ve written articles, eulogies, short stories, letters, charity flyers, obituaries, sports reports, and a variety of other things. 

But novel-related writing?   Oh, no.  I hadn’t done any of that. 

In fact, any time I’d think of an idea that might possibly, conceivably, by-some-remote-chance morph into a novel, my throat would go dry and my chest would tighten.  I would go into some irrational self-defense mode and mentally I would close the door on that idea.  I could literally see a door slam shut in my mind’s-eye and then the darkness set in.

I turned my back on those ideas, killing them one by one, because of my fear. 

Fear of Writing a Novel. 

Fear of Failing.

Fear of Succeeding. 

It’s heartbreaking.  It’s absolutely ridiculous.  And it’s very real.

Today, I decided to make a change.  I decided to try to use my fear to propel myself forward, instead of letting it hold me back. 

I went to my study and pushed the moisture-swollen door open.  It screeched like I was opening a mummy’s tomb.  And, in a sense, I suppose that’s appropriate.  There really should be a burial ground somewhere for all of those good ideas I’ve either killed or allowed to die.

Just so you know, I’m not over it.  I’m still scared to death.  But I’m going to go forward this time.  I’m going to push ahead.  I’m going to clear the clutter from this room and the dreck from my brain and then I’m going to sit down and write.  A novel.

I’d like it very much if you’d come with me on this journey.  We’ll cross the burning bridges and battle the demons together.

We’ll just step off this cliff over here and see where the darkness below takes us.

What do you say?