Jen Frankel’s ‘Zugunruhe’

This will be the. . . I’m embarrassed to even begin to guess at the number of years I’ve been promising the sequel to my novel.

Truly embarrassing, because the first one was very well-received. I know I hit a chord, especially with young female readers, and that’s a demographic I was a part of so long I really like the idea that someone’s catering to them. Purely selfish, but there it is.

Why do I procrastinate? Yeah, it’s hard work, but when I do it, it’s energizing. Getting my ass to a chair is the hardest part of the day by far. As soon as I’m faced with a blank page or screen, I get edgy, not anxious, and I want to fill up that tabula rasa as fast as possible.

Maggie Stuart, heroine of "The Last Rite"

I am a total binge writer; I go until the coffee’s gone and I’m a puddle of intellectual slobber. But getting to that lovely state of discombobulated bliss requires getting the fingers solidly connected to the keyboard.

There’s a part of me that I fight every single day, just for the privilege of doing what I was born to do. It’s a deeply ingrained sense of my own potential for failure.

It’s the little voice that says, “Why bother?” that somehow, quiet and tiny as it is, manages to make itself heard over all the bluster of my best intentions.

It also manages to criticize when I’ve done a great day’s work, whispering, “But is it enough?”

It’s like being in lust, and having your thoughts circling, circling constantly to the adored, derailing all your attempts to think of something else.

I know the technique to get the train of thought rolling again. It’s all about self-distraction. Get myself intrigued by some aspect of a character, or rediscover a plot point hidden in a scrawled note, and before you know it, the sound of the clacking keys is drowning that little voice out completely.

But until I get myself distracted, and turn the circling focus of my attention to good use instead of running in neutral, it’s with me always.

I love to believe there’s a permanent cure for the little voice. It’s part of an artist’s life for certain. It’s necessary, in a way, because it keeps a good rein on the ego and stops you from believing whatever your own press may become.

Why is it so easy to remember your insecurities, and so hard to remember the things you love? I figure it’s only a matter of training, of forming the habit of making the trip through the circling thoughts to the blank page.

Check out “The Last Rite” on www.wildsound.ca – a new e-book download is available for just $7, full of new illustrations.