So I begin to suspect that in addition to the crushing anxiety, those damned multivitamins were also contributing strongly to the general air of OMG I CAN'T WRITE and all my life is darkness, woe, and despair that's been going on around here.
Because I got just under 800 words on "The Red in the Sky is Our Blood" today, which is not, you know, a great day, but it's an okay one. And it didn't hurt. And I am not contemplating how much I suck, and how there is no story in here to tell, and who the hell am I to think I can write, and by the way, this is awful and who am I kidding, and I should probably just nip off and shoot myself now. And I can reread it without wanting to cry, and I sort of enjoyed the process of writing it.
I'm not sure where the story is going, but I'm confident I might think up the next scene on my run tomorrow morning, and anyway I've drafted plenty of stories without knowing exactly how they were going to come together in the end, one scene or image or thematic tidbit at a time. I can do that; it's what revision is for.
And the actual writing process was not acutely painful. There was nothing about it that made me think I should give this up and get a job at Starbucks. I did not feel like I was just making shit up without reference to good craft or storytelling. I didn't have any huge bursts of inspiration or click experiences, but the actual process of writing was modestly pleasureable, in a spending time on quiet quality work of solid craftsmanship kind of way.
Maybe this career can be saved after all.
And now, I think, some yoga before archery.