Tag: fears

Betas are Scary. Everything is Scary.

Last week, I sent my novel to my first ever beta readers. I knew that this was part of the process. I knew, as churned through revisions, that someone would eventually have to read what I’d slaved over. And still, I dragged my feet. I dragged my feet for weeks as I fiddled with commas and rearranged sentences.

I was scared of turning my novel loose. I was scared because what if this thing that I’d poured my heart and soul into was no good? What if the readers hated it and I’d wasted months and years working on this one story?

But I knew it was time. I knew if I didn’t do this, my writing would stagnate. And it still took my therapist imposing an arbitrary deadline on me to push me over the edge and press the send button.

I chose one person, a person I trusted not to break my heart, and sent it to them. I didn’t really sleep that night. How could I? I’d put all my dreams in one basket.

But a funny thing happened the morning after. I woke up, and suddenly betas didn’t seem so scary anymore. It was like diving into the deep end. When you’ve done it once, the subsequent attempts aren’t nearly as terrifying.

So I posted on Twitter that I needed beta readers. If I say that it was one of the scariest things I’ve done, don’t laugh. Putting yourself out there, especially if you have anxiety, is no joke.

And then I started getting responses. And hitting that send button was a lot easier the second, and the third, and the fourth time.

I’m not sure what all of the feedback will look like. I’m not sure how I’ll handle the negatives. But I’m so, so glad that I did it. I know this was an important step in my writing journey.

So if, like I did, you’re contemplating the send button with anxiety, close your eyes. Take a deep breath. And send it.

Because the worst that will happen is, yes, you’ll get bad feedback. But guess what? All feedback makes you stronger. It doesn’t mean that what you’ve written is no good. It just means that it can get better. There is no wasted time with writing. Everything you write, everything you read, everything you edit, makes you a stronger writer.

Everything about this crazy writing dream can be scary. Every story you read about making it to publication is different, every blog and website wants to tell you the absolute dos and don’ts of the process, every person wants to tell you how difficult getting published will be. But I think there’s a secret no one tells you: nobody really knows what they’re doing.

I don’t really know what I’m doing.

But that’s okay. Because I’m determined to figure it out.

Chapter 6: Blood, Sweat, and Fears

(I wrote this post two months ago but I was nervous about posting it. Here it is anyway.)

I’ve spent the last four years, two months and five days pouring myself into something that I didn’t love.

In retrospect, that seems like a lot of time. In the grand scheme of things, maybe not so much. Still, I’ve always dreamed bigger, wanted more. But all my life I’ve been too afraid to change course. Change is scary. Better to stay on the path you know and tolerate than to leap into the unknown.

I had to prove that I was strong, that I could stay the course set beneath my feet, stretching on and on before me. Twisting it in my head so that staying wasn’t about fear, wasn’t about the million anxieties needling in every decision. There was strength in staying.

That’s what I’d tell myself crying in the bathroom when life was too overwhelming even though it wasn’t supposed to be. Life was supposed to be the path, and the path was supposed to be safe.

That’s what I’d tell myself driving home and wondering if I could crash the car just right to put me out of commission for a few months so I’d have time to just breathe. There was no space for breathing on the path.

That’s what I’d tell myself when weekends stretched into endless periods of dread and depression, and it was all I could do to drag myself out of bed. But I did, because this was the path, and the path was security.

That’s what I’d tell myself when the doctors did tests and said there was nothing wrong so the logical conclusion was that the pain was just in my head but I knew for a fact that my chest was about to rip open with how much it hurt every morning. This was the path, though, and the path was comfortably familiar underneath the pain.

Until it wasn’t anymore.

I wish there was some sweeping, cinematic moment that I decided this, something with lightning sparking in the background and the wind blowing through my hair. But there wasn’t. It just happened. One day, the path wasn’t enough for me anymore. I’d given literal blood, sweat, and tears to something I didn’t love for the last four years, two months, and five days, and suddenly, that was unbearable.

I used to think there was strength in staying where I was supposed to.

But now I know the strength is in leaving.

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