How could you not be relaxed?
One would think that being out in all of that wilderness, the peaceful sounds of nature surrounding me, that I would have a million ideas flowing through me. Some of you probably had romantic images of me, pen poised, notebook full of scribbles and scratches written in haste. It's ok, I had the same adorable day dreams. It didn't go down like that at all. In fact, it was the opposite.
See, what happens when I have these lofty ideas about my creativity is that I completely psyche myself out. I envisioned quiet nights that would lend themselves to a deep slumber full of vivid dreams and rich tapestries of scenes for my manuscripts. Instead, I was met with a chamber of echoes filled with self doubt. I suffered terrible insomnia, waking every hour or two, at best. Every time I awoke, I was greeted by a nagging voice asking me why I wasn't writing. What was holding me back? Maybe I wasn't really a writer? Maybe I wasn't cut out for this? Maybe, just maybe, this was another one of my lame attempts at becoming something, when I was meant to be nothing. I was paralyzed with fear that the lack of creative energy was a sure sign that I was going to fail at this endeavor.
Self doubt is a nasty bitch. I should have kicked her ass when I had the chance.
Yeah, that's what I should have said.
She took me down and knocked the wind out of me when I hit the ground. Gasping for breath, feeling the weight of her girth sitting on my chest, I fought to regain my strength. (Yes, I personified my self doubt. Work with me here.) It wasn't a fatal wound, but I was incapacitated, to say the least.
She won the battle. I am slowly putting myself back together. Every little piece I write, every drabble, every paragraph, every freelance article, rebuilds my strength. Next time, I'll be prepared. I'll have an arsenal of weapons and an armor of steel. Because, my friends, I fully intend to win the war.