So, I get up at half past four in the mornings to give myself a little writing time before I start my working day. Its half an hour less sleep and it seems my body is OK with me taking it. Well until it’s evening and 8 o’clock and my body insists on taking it back.
The thing about writing in the morning is that my inner editor is still so sleepy that I can get away with quite a lot, but my detail-obsessive mean streak is quite perky no matter what the hour is. So this morning I was well under way, 300 words into my half hour, my heroine is awaiting the arrival of the cops, and my brain starts this annoying whine. Would the cops put on the sirens for this, would they run or would they walk, would they …
I have no way of knowing. I’ve never been involved with the police more than a few calls to the emergency number for pretty mundane stuff. And I doubt its as easy as just picking up a phone to call them, as my daughter suggested. Least of all at 5 am in the morning.
I know what I really want to do. I want to gag the whining SOB in my head and just write. But then I start thinking about what a job of rewriting it all I will have if I don’t mind the details. Then another voice pipes up and tells Obsessive-worrier to shut it, just write on anyway.
Its a shouting match in there. Like siblings bitching at each other. I can’t win. When the bickering starts I might as well just pack it in for a time and go do something else, while that of course invites self-loathing for not being able to control my inner voices enough to JUST WRITE THE DAMN THING ALREADY.
And the funny thing is that it is not because I care about the details, not really. It is because my brain is telling me how people reading my stuff is going to react to my stupid flaws. I am jumping the gun by so many light years that I might as well worry about what will happen when and if I move to Mars.