Goodness me, my inner monologue has been a right old heckler today. I awoke this morning with a whole strand of moody thoughts waiting at the gates for me. I’d taken a few days away from my novel to focus on some non-fiction projects which had been pecking at my brain for a couple of weeks. Progress on Synthetic Empires had slowed, and I was struggling to fully engage with the opening chapter. I haven’t stopped writing it, movement on the project has just been a bit more sluggish than it was in prior weeks. It’s gotten to a point where I’m squeezing out between 50 to 100 words an evening on it. It seems the days of me bashing away at my keyboard as the Murder, She Wrote theme hums away in the back of my head.

Motivation had fizzled up a touch. I know why this is the case. It’s no secret to me. I’m not happy with how it’s all going at the moment. When originally plotting this chapter out, I had a very specific vision for it. Quinn would introduce herself to us, we’d learn a bit about the first days of her existence, then we’d get a taste of her energetic, playful nature. As usual, the chapter has ended up spiraling way outside the 3,000-word limit I’d imposed upon it. It’s now almost 5,000 in length and doesn’t flow quite as well as it did in my mind’s eye. The kinetic, zippy pace I expected was replaced with something far more stern and subdued than I’d anticipated. It wasn’t panning out as I’d expected. I didn’t enjoy what I was writing.

As I wrestled with a chapter that was slipping from my grip, I decided to reward myself by penning an essay for my website. I do love the thrill of hitting “post” on a fresh new piece of work that I’ve conjured up for a film or TV episode that’s been on my mind. It might sound daft, but short-form content keeps me sane when working on long-form projects. I need that sense of accomplishment. I need to keep getting things out there. Novels are long. The rewards always feel far off. An essay offers that sense of accomplishment in a matter of hours. It’s the hundred meter sprint that keeps up moral as I train for the marathon.

Shortly after publishing, I felt good about the work. My writing seemed stronger than it had been in a while. I felt as though I’d communicated my ideas in a manner that was engaging and efficient .Sure, the ideas were a tad hefty, plus there were a couple of moments in which I wondered whether any of what I was saying made any sense. Still, by the time it went live, I felt it was good enough for my readers.

I went to bed that night happy that a little bit more of my work was out there in the big wide world. Yet a switch had seemingly flipped inside my head as I slept. I awoke that morning feeling embarrassed over the whole affair. Why had I written it? Why had I posted it? And why had I shared it across my social media accounts. Surely it was all a steaming heap of nonsense. Why would I hash out 2,000 words on an idea I’d only conjured up the previous evening? I should have sat on it, let the thoughts properly gestate before vomiting it onto my screen. It was a hot, silly mess that wasn’t fit for public consumption.

Am I being dramatic? Oh of course I am. In reality, it’s probably a middling essay at best. A little scatter-brained, but inoffensive and probably entertaining to some of my audience. It’s not going to win any awards, but so what? That was never the point. Regardless of its quality, I made it because I wanted to, and that should be the end of that. I shouldn’t be punishing myself as if I’d just set fire to my local woodlands. Nevertheless my inner monologue had other plans. It was fuming with me, perplexed as to why I carry on with this whole writing malarky.

Thoughts of my essay gradually began to fade from my mind as the day progressed. I busied myself with a morning gym session, followed by a handful of work projects. Life was okay. I’m not the worse writer in existence. All I needed to do was give it a few hours, and I’d be totally fine.

Except the notion of being a bad writer wouldn’t quite shift. I even went as far as to start wondering about my novel. Synthetic Empires really had been lacking in recent days. It doesn’t sound or feel how I wanted it to when I first dreamed it into existence. As already mentioned, that opening chapter was dragging its heels and behaving like an unruly toddler. Much like the outline, the word count was getting way out of hand. Plus, the nuts and bolts of the chapter was fast buckling under the weight of it all. I was losing control, and I was slowing down my progress as a result.

Self-loathing quickly worked its wicked ways on me. Did this mean I couldn’t get a handle on my worlds and characters? Was my incompetence the reason why Quinn’s words wasn’t matching the voice I had for her in my head? Was this why a simple, nuts-and-bolts chapter had nosedived into a strange, abstract opener? Was I wasting my time with all of this?

The answer is no. Of course I’m not wasting my time. Get a grip, Amber! Once again, doubt is having a pop at my drive. Truth be told, it’s been a very busy period recently. It’s only natural that my writing has decreased in terms of its output. Rescuing a stray cat and her kittens from my backyard at the start of June drastically snatched time away from me. It’s a bleedin’ miracle I’ve been able to write so much as my shopping list, let alone several essays, a novel outline and a chapter. I’m just scaring myself, conjuring up reasons to run and hide again.

There’s an echo of a memory here. I’ve felt this way on numerous occasions throughout my life. A recurring pattern is making itself apparent here. I become inspired, I map out a story, I think about it endlessly, I start writing it out, I tell myself it’s all worthless, I pack up my pens and go home. I dream of flying, so I flap my wings and run as hard as I can. The thought of taking off floods me with excitement. What sights might I see as I ascend into the skies? How glorious it must feel to soar through silky clouds. As I start to sense anything resembling a take-off, I suddenly panic. I tell myself I cannot fly. What if I start to fall? I could get hurt! So I cease flapping. I scuttle away. Fools like me can’t fly.

Everything will be fine. As for the quality of my opening chapter, it’s fine that it’s hefty and a little bit naff at the moment. It’s called a “first draft” for a reason. Quinn’s voice doesn’t sound right because I’m writing her for the first time. Let me just get her introduction out on the page, then I can alter the tone at a later date, yeah? Likewise, I can trim the fat when it’s time to rewrite.

This is the point I must push past. The doubt, the fear, the self-loathing. It’s what stops me in my tracks every time. Not this time, of course. It’s why I have this nifty little diary. I need to call myself out on my own self-criticism. I cannot let the inner monologue hinder me again. Finish the chapter and move on to the next stage. I did it with the outline, and I can do it with a chapter.

This is where the pattern must break. This is the moment I hope to stop scuttling away and remember how to flap my ruddy wings. The fear will still linger, but the desire to see the view from above is stronger. It’s time to take off.