I have anxiety. More anxiety than is healthy, and it influences my writing.
That was more difficult to write than I anticipated, and my fingers are itching to backspace
Looking back on my childhood, I am confident that I had anxiety starting in at least fifth or sixth grade. I’m sure it was constantly present, but it was most manifest when learning math. While in younger years I enjoyed math, by sixth grade, I was terrified of getting a wrong answer. I had multiple sleepless nights each week agonizing over math quizzes, homework, and tests. I heard people say, “mistakes are okay, that’s how you learn!” but I could not internalize that. Mistakes meant a lower grade. Mistakes meant embarrassment. Mistakes were a mark against me as a person.
As I grew, my anxiety found new outlets: in art, my music, parenting and relationships. I thought it was normal and just lived with it. Shrugged it off, pushed it aside, accepted it.
Then in 2021, my family hosted Easter, and extended family descended upon our house. I wanted them to come, but I again heard the voices saying I wasn’t enough. I didn’t clean enough, so my family will think we live like slobs. I didn’t cook well enough, and they’ll wish they hadn’t come. Our house wasn’t nice enough, so they’ll judge us for how much money we bring in. The voices were so loud, they drowned out my family. That day, couldn’t go greet my younger brother who I hadn’t seen in ages, because I was drowning in voices. That’s when I knew it wasn’t normal.
Still today, I am ashamed of my anxiety and how I let it control me. Which, not that I see it in writing, may be my anxiety still speaking. I’ll think on it later.
I want my writing to be thorough. I want it to be accurate. And it stems from anxiety induced perfectionism.
Those who follow my posts know the majority in the past were about Nome, because my first novel is set in 1920 Nome, Alaska. I have been minorly obsessed with being historically accurate. I’ve calculated how many pounds of fish would fit in a barrel. I’ve looked up historical weather charts, so if I say it was a sunny day June 8, 1920, it really was. And I’ve spent days working out early heating systems, learning how to use a cast iron stove, and researching Nome, AK water supply lines and sources. I’ve read six or seven memoires of Alaskans in that time period. I need to be accurate, or I expose potential vulnerabilities for critics:
“You don’t live in Alaska, so you’ll never understand.”
“You aren’t Inupiat, so you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You obviously didn’t do enough research if you didn’t know THAT…”
So I research, and research, and research some more. I write, re-write, do more research, and write again. I pour over illustrations for minor historical inconsistencies, and still hold off from saying it’s finished because there’s just one more element I need to verify.
In graduate school, this anxiety induced perfectionism was useful. I think it lead me to excel, because it makes me detail oriented, and I could anticipate rebuttals.
I have my anxiety more under control now (thank goodness), but I still can’t internalize what I logically know to be true:
“I’m a work in progress.”
“I am learning to accept there is no such thing as perfect, only good enough.”
“Critics will find flaws no matter how much research I do.”
I find what helps me most, is to walk away from the novel for a month at a time. Work on another project. When I come back, a detail I thought was vital to get right just doesn’t seem consequential anymore, and I can refocus myself on the story.
Walking away for a month isn’t reasonable in all areas of my life, but this is a blog about research and writing, right?
Northern Skies Publishing 