Help me out here, folks!
Tell me why.
Why, after every semi-decent piece I write, do I panic that I will never again write anything remotely readable again?
You would think I could successfully argue, from past experience, that this fear is unfounded, that I feel this “too-damn-near-terror-for-comfort” kick in the writerly gut every damn day, and most days I, indeed, manage to get beyond it and write something bordering-on-decent again the next.
Therefore, it would seem to me, I should be able to help myself beyond this panic, that I should not face this fear, day after day, year after year, ‘til death do pen and paper part, so help me blog gods!
Is this a sickness?
Am I going to face this compulsion to write every morning for the rest of my life, and still, day after day, deal with this “punch-in-the-face” fear that every authorial success will be my last?
Is this wild roller coaster ride of writerly ups and downs an insanity that I can medicate with some cocktail of bipolar drugs that will keep me this side of crazy, this side of beyond-the-brink?
Is there some special poet’s Prozac?
Some writers’ remedy I’m not aware of?
Please leave your script in the comments that follow.
And don’t tell me to take two Freshly Pressed and call you in the morning!