This afternoon I read a story I wrote years ago, and for the life of me, I cannot figure out how I ever managed to get through it. It made me incredibly anxious. It’s a good thing – a piece of writing so compelling it affected my psychological state – even when I already knew the ending. But I’m still tense now.

I do love a happy ending. (Well now, that sounds dirty… but I laughed so there it is.) I adore forever and perfect. The story I pulled from my ‘written works crate’ today did eventually arrive at a lovely destination, but traveling the road to reach it was traumatic. The skyscraping highs and plummeting lows… the turbulence… I thought I might actually puke. (What the hell was I going through when I wrote this? Seriously…!)

I want my words to make people feel things. Caring about characters and their story so much that I cry or shiver or feel sick – that’s a huge part of what makes me love a story when I’m the reader. Emotion is essential. I hate and love how anxious I am right now. Do I want to do this to others?

Maybe I do.

Not maliciously, of course.

And hey, who’s to say anyone else would experience the same level of tension I did? I’m a pretty high strung individual. (I know, decaf might be a choice. Just not a choice I’d ever make…)

Any emotion is better than no emotion. That’s what I think. 

But right now… I need to go do yoga breathing to relax.