Book as baby
When I was in labour with my first daughter, everything progressed quite quickly. And then it all sort of stopped. Looking back, and with the hindsight of a second pretty quick labour and delivery, I know what happened the first time around: I got scared. My anxious and ever-cogitating mind overrode my body, which pretty much ‘knew’ what it was doing, and seized everything up. Eighteen hours later, the baby was dragged out of me. She didn’t cry, because she wasn’t breathing.
In the end all was well, but there was an anxious wait. Of course, if the umbilical cord had been left attached it would have been less so, because the baby would have still been receiving an oxygenated blood supply (at least that’s how I think it works). But in these days of quick, quick, quick, the cord is severed in short order. It left me traumatised. It definitely affected the baby too.
As I stall deep into the second draft of my first ‘book’, I realise that what has stopped the motor running is, once again, fear. Fear of the material, of not being good enough, of letting people down, of living with pain to deliver a book that won’t breathe. What I must remember is that this is labour and there’s no going back. There are no guarantees in going forward either, bringing anything into the world is always a risky business.
I know this all might sound a touch dramatic. It’s not meant to read that way. I can only speak as I find, and that’s how it is, right now. All I really know is: there’s no going back.