Doubt has once again begun to creep into my head. It was bound to happen sooner or later, especially during a scheduled breaktime. I was, after all, experiencing something of a writing honeymoon period over the August weeks. I was producing more content than ever. Non-fiction and fiction work spilled out of my brain, making its way onto page after page. If I wasn’t working on my novel, I was putting together an article for Spotlight or my official site. I’d even stopped my usual habit of seeking out “better” writing software to supposedly perfect my novel writing. I stuck to Google Docs, jumping from desktop to tablet writing when my presence was required beyond my study. I spent almost every free moment outside of my day job writing, and I felt good about it. Finally, after 35 years, I was becoming the creative powerhouse I’d always dreamt of being.

At least that’s how I was framing it in my mind’s eye. I just wanted to be productive, all the time, non-stop. If I’m not socialising, tending to my new feline family, or working to pay my mortgage, I want to be writing. If I write, I can feel worthy. If I feel worthy, I’m fighting off the dread of failure.

If we’re being pragmatic, though, this isn’t sustainable. I can’t just write all the time. I’ll just burn myself out. It’s happened before, and it will happen again. I’ll work away, telling myself that this is what it’s all about. I’m perfecting a craft I love. It’s all for a good cause. It’ll offer a more fulfilling and rewarding life. If I’m writing, I’m content. The problem is, that feeling will soon be replaced by something a little less spiritually indulging. Next thing you know, I’m curled up in a corner of my house, crying and wondering why on earth I haven’t got time to read a book or spend time with my friends.

Which is why toward the end of last week, I told myself to slow down. As the bank holiday weekend neared, I instructed myself to do more leisurely stuff. I needed to spend more time with friends, visit my family, go for walks, spend a bit more time in the gym, indulge in listening to the new Pendulum album I’d been looking forward to, and catch up on the latest Alien: Earth series.

So come Saturday morning, I closed down my Google Docs and retired to my living room to spend a day watching TV and reading. At some point during that morning, I decided to take a peek at the work I’d written in recent weeks. I looked at Synthetic Empires, wondering what it looked like from a reader’s perspective. I’m not entirely sure why I did this. I suppose I wanted to stroke my ego in some way. How nice it would be to take a look at my recent efforts in a moment of calm. I could be proud of my achievements, marvelling at the gradual evolution of my writing over a month of revision and self-reflection.

Pride did not meet me on the other side of that read-through, however. I was horrified, ashamed of my work.

“These prose are a shambles,” I thought to myself. How could they have come from my mind? After all those years of avid reading, essay writing, and screenwriting, surely I was better than this!

I was most disturbed by the way in which I’d conveyed the action in my novel. The opening chapters of Synthetic Empires consisted of protagonists wandering around, reacting to things they saw, and drinking tea with other characters. No one is doing anything! They are just pottering around, behaving as though they are characters inside a video game. And why on earth had I felt the need to describe everything going on in a single scene? Did I really need to tell readers about the architecture and choice of blinds decorating Michelle’s parents’ living room? Must I elaborate the origins of the fruit tea Michelle’s mum was serving up for her?

Perhaps my years of writing non-fiction had made my fiction storytelling a little rusty. After all, conveying ideas in a film review or retrospective is a little different than crafting imaginary vistas. Moving a story forward requires multiple approaches in order to effectively deliver the information you wish readers to take on board. But then what about the screenplays I’d worked on over the years? They were all works of fiction, and I’d been more than fine in moving the story forward with clarity. Then again, screenplays are drastically different beasts than prose-based fiction. Outlining that a character needs to walk from one side of the room to the next is not only acceptable in a script, in many cases, it’s mandatory. A screenplay, by and large, is a technical document designed for a production team to utilise. A novel is not a blueprint, but a finished product. You don’t quite need to outline every movement with such blunt precision. Different tools and approaches are required in order to tell the story.

Shifting back to prose-based fiction is simply a learning curve, is all. I’m not quite used to writing this way because I’ve only just started doing it again properly. With time and effort, it will become more second nature to me. Plus, now that I’m reading more fiction as opposed to non-fiction during my downtime means I’ll get a better feel for this form of writing. It doesn’t mean I’m dreadful by default. My first draft can afford to be heavy-handed and weird and faulty. It’s not a sign of failure, it’s part of the journey.

I knew all of this as I looked on at my work in horror. I was all too aware that the world of writing was not ending for me. The fact I’d dedicated so much of my free time to writing over the last few months was proof enough that I had the drive within me. I could do this, even the difficult parts. My horror was just a blip, a moment of uncertainty in the midst of a marathon.

Did I use this realisation to calm myself down in the present and crack on with my show? Of course not! I turned my TV off and ran to my computer. I panic-penned a short story, hoping I could prove to myself that I was able to write fiction without resorting to blunt instructions. I just had to prove to myself I could do this. Surely I must have it in me to tell a ripping good yarn from a first draft alone. I wasn’t awful at writing. Please, God, don’t let me be bad at writing!

Completing my short story did not result in me feeling any better about myself, of course. I looked back on my story with the same doubt as I had for my Synthetic Empires manuscript. If anything, I’d just added to the problem, giving myself more content to doubt myself over.

Two days have passed, and I’m sitting here, panicking. Am I wasting my time writing this novel? Should I revert back to writing non-fiction essays on the regular? Maybe I needed to find another career path to pursue. Who knows, maybe I’d be a really great gardener or tap dancer or chef. Anything but writing, surely.

I know I’m being dramatic. I know this doubt will pass. Come tomorrow evening, I’ll almost certainly be excited and motivated to crack on with my work. again. Right now, however, I’m fighting the urge not to give up. The desire to take a bank holiday rest spurred on an urge to take a permanent break. It’s as if my brain must resort to all or nothing. Either I write until I pass out, or I refuse to write altogether. The key now is to take on those breaks without using that spare time to resort to doubting myself. I can’t let the hesitance win. I’m making progress at the moment. My story is coming to life, one word at a time. It may not be market-ready just yet, but that’s normal. Manuscripts go through many drafts and re-edits before they are consumption-ready.

At the time of writing, I’m getting ready to attempt another break. I’m off for food with friends shortly. I’m going to finish up this article, schedule it for release, then I’m off. My aim is to not peek at my work while I’m out. Likewise, any doubtful notions of packing in writing must not be entertained. I’m going to eat some food, enjoy a movie, and rest up for a little bit.