Monday, August 05, 2002


That would be me.

Just finished my morning working on a book proposal, which several agents have expressed an interest in, ranging from scrawled on the corner of my own query letter to a pretty personal letter. There seems to be some audience for this thing I want to write about, but as passionately as I feel about it, I also feel anxious. I know where it comes from, I've certainly paid enough money to a terrific enough therapist, but it remains. The anxiety. The procrastination. It's the part of the Julia Cameron book I always felt the most hostile know, personalizing your demons, writing your bad self talk down and ripping it up--but there they are again. My friend, Sister Mary Anxiety. Father Who Do You Think You Are. I need an exorcism.

That's of course when one of my better angels comes in--my friends, my coach, my husband, my various self-help books, even the little voice inside--and tells me, you know, it's not that big a deal. Write the next word. That's all you have to keep doing. Forget about the bigger stuff, and what it means, which is just the ego nattering away anyway. My most pleasant writing/publishing experiences have all had this "one word at a time" quality, the "digression after digression" that Alice Sebold talks about. That's it. I'm not Writing A Book Proposal. I'm digressing, pleasantly.

Thanks for letting me babble.


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