Insania

Can't sleep.  I've spent a fair chunk of my life not being able to sleep.  The only cure is writing but I haven't been able to do much of that tonight.  My best writing comes during those bouts of insomnia - and also when I'm drunk but we don't need to dwell on that one - but, alas, not tonight.  I needed a firmer hold on the novelette so printed it out and attacked it with a red pen.  I kind of enjoyed it (shush, don't tell anyone).  I only made it through seven pages (but they are absolutely covered in tiny red scrawl) because the baby was unwell and decided she wanted to sleep straight up, in my arms.  Instead of working, I read and now she's settled, it's roughly half six in the morning and the birthday girl will be up in about an hour so not much point even trying to sleep.

I already know I'm going to have serious trouble trying to figure out all of the red scrawl - not to mention the great sprawling arrows flying all over the page.  I learned to write tiny when I was a kid for two reasons.  One, because there was never an abundance of paper (except for that time my mother worked for a paper factory, that rocked) and two, so nobody could read it.  In school, I wrote tinchy in the hopes the teacher wouldn't be able to understand it and toss it aside without reading it.  If they asked me to read stories out loud, I would speak really fast and really low so nobody could hear me.  If you've heard me speaking, you'll know I speak fast anyway so picture turbo speed reading.  That would be my super power.  Sadly.

Back when I started blogging - not this one - I used to panic whenever I received a comment.  My heart would race at the idea someone actually read what I had written.  Or worse - disagreed.  *Gasps of horror* Whenever someone online would say, oh I read your last blog post, I would probably break out into a cold sweat before I read til the end of their sentence.  If I posted something, um, controversial, I wouldn't check my email the next morning - delaying the onslaught of virtual torches and pitchforks for as long as possible.

Funny thing.  Nobody ever disagreed with me.  Nobody ever argued a point.  Nobody ever said anything that wasn't supportive or funny or super-awesomely-cool.  The fear was for nothing.  The temptation to unpublish was for nothing.  I don't know how I scraped through unscathed, by the way, I was particularly vocal on some big issues but despite the huge amount of traffic certain "opinions" got me, nobody told me to feck off.  Despite me cringing at the lack of coherency of my blog, people still came back for me.  Not everyone, but that was okay.  Some blogs just aren't for everyone.

The same weird fears are still there, partly regarding this blog but mostly about writing and publishing.  That notion of who do I think I am, they're all looking at me, pointing and staring, ready to eat me alive still lingers.  Probably always will.  We really put ourselves out there and provide the whips to lash us with, in all honesty.  Brave wee things, really.  Either brash or cringing, we're all waiting for the feedback, the words that let us know how we're doing and if others approve. 

Before I pressed publish on dtp (or kdp or whatever the hell it is now) I nearly threw up.  And why?  First, it was in case someone actually bought it.  Yeah, I know.  I know - and hello, welcome to my life.  Next was the whole what if they don't like it?  I might die, oh, no, wait, actually, I won't.  Sometimes I get paranoid and loseresque and think what if they talk about it behind my back and . . . and laffs at mes.  But, wait, do I really, honestly, care about the opinion of people who act that way?  Um, no, stopped caring about a decade or so ago.  So what am I worried about again?  About what might happen? 

Sooooo, what if the might happens and what ifs turn out to be . . . kinda good?  Nice, even?  I'd be missing out over a little thing like fear.  Huh.  And what if somebody didn't like it, or somebody laughed at me?  Would I really be afraid to try things forever, just in case?  Would I really try to spite myself because I gave some random, hypothetical person power over me? 

It's 7am now so I'll leave it at that.  This is what Claire's brain sounds like when she can't sleep.  Not pretty, is it?  Have a good weekend people.  I'm off to celebrate the fact I have a 4 year old again - 4s rock.