Stage Fright

This is Neil Gaiman. He is a demi-god among men. React appropriately.

The other day on Facebook, Neil Gaiman wrote a status about getting over his stage fright and getting back into his characters.

It stuck with me. He is absolutely correct. The fear, self-doubt, and anxiety I feel every time I open whatever story I’m working on is exactly that, stage fright. If I’m really into what I’m writing, on one of my ‘writing kicks’, I don’t have it, or it is so minimal I don’t even notice it. Most days, though, I have to fight through all kinds of mess in my head to write.

I think it is why so many of us drink or do drugs. We have to fight to get into our head properly then fight to get out. It is quite a trick. If things are good we are not in the same real world as everyone else. When things are bad, we struggle to find our other realities. We are always trying to be somewhere else while most of us still have to try to function in everyone else’s world. Writers are never quite happy with where they are. Weird, I know.

Most days I would love to be able to slip in and out of a state of wandering around mumbling to my characters and looking at those around me and asking them random questions about the plot points in my head. One day, maybe when I’m a real writer, I will be able to accomplish it at will. I certainly can’t now.

Now I open something I’m writing and immediately freeze up. Even if I know what I’m writing, or like what I’m writing, I still get paralyzed by the stage lights. Even if I know my characters and where they want to go, I hyperventilate a little.

I know the feeling, I’ve acted before and given speeches. I’m kinda terrible at both. I’m terrified of reading out loud and presenting my paper for Historical Research and Writing in college was a slice of hell. I know I can reach people when I speak. I’ve had people react to speeches I’ve given, but the act of speaking is pure terror. I’m pretty sure I closed my eyes and just started talking during one.

Oddly enough, I rarely feel stage fright when I write here. I think this page is the equivalent of closing my eyes and bumbling through my heart.

My logic brain kicks in and asks me why I try to write. I ask myself why I want to be a writer even though it means fear almost every time I do it. Because I have no choice. Writers write. It’s what we do. Life has made it difficult for me to write lately. I’ve been taking care of someone or been sick since the beginning of December. I was too emotionally messed up after Dad’s hospital stay to think much less write. Tonight I started itching though.

When I start to miss writing, it is like my skin itches on the inside. My brain chews and works. I get bored with everything. Something inside of me feels like it is pacing like an impatient tiger.  Sometimes I need to write like this, bumbling with my eyes closed, and sometimes I need to tell a story. I miss my stories. I miss my novella. I feel their world hovering right there. It might be time to try and visit them.

Everyone who performs knows one simple thing: stage fright sucks, but it is totally worth it when you get over it.