“Too much fear stops the flow.”
Blood-letting. It happens, at The Blood Center and in writing — both for good cause. And for me, it’s happening simultaneously. My appointment to give blood looms on the horizon, and I have a short story due to a group of writing friends this week. Both events put the fear in me, so I figured this was a good a time as any to re-publish an old post.
Give it up.
This weekend, I gave blood. This wasn’t my first time, but let me say that (in my case anyway) it never gets easier.
I know the routine: the check-in, the donor questionnaire, the finger stick. I know exactly what to expect, which is the whole reason I break out into a sweat and forget how to breathe the second the phlebotomist cracks the cover on the needle. And, that sitcom rerun playing on the television across the room does nothing to distract me from the snaking tube sticking out of my arm for a solid ten minutes — or more, depending on whether or not my vein cooperates.
I am mess from the minute I walk into the Blood Center to the second I hear the beep from the machine that announces my pint-size bag is full up.
It’s the anticipation of discomfort that gets to me, and the worry that I might not make my quota. What if I didn’t drink enough water? What if something goes wrong and she has to re-insert the needle? What if I pass out and never make it to the sugar-filled treats at the end of Donor’s Row?
Oddly enough (or maybe not so much), a recent sit down with my work in progress felt a lot like this blood-letting. The same anxiety crept up on me seconds before I opened the file. I started to sweat as I scrolled down to my page mark. And, the initial string of words I typed out cut across the page and sounded choppy and slow. Then, all of the “what if’s” flooded my mind.
What if this scene doesn’t come together?
What if the story falls apart, right here, right now?
What if…I.Never. Finish.
I can’t avoid that anxiety, really. It’s genetic, and it’s part of my writing process. In many ways, dealing with it helps move me forward. I could give in to those fears, but that would mean I quit, and I’ve come too far to quit.
So, just like I squeezed that little stress ball and survived my stint at the Blood Center, I’ll write through my fears as best I can on a given day. Each word that falls onto the page fills that page, eventually, and some of those words will gel into a decent story. I’ll remember what the phlebotomist told me, in between her constant chatter that she hoped would settle my nerves: the more you relax, the better your blood flows, and – before you know it – you’re at the end!
There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed. ~Ernest Hemingway
* photo credit: rvoegtli on Flickr.com