Now I Gotta Write

A little over a month ago, I was in Charlotte, North Carolina at a sleep convention, a gathering of sleep medicine professionals of all levels from all over the country. I make it a point to go to these events every couple of years, as it’s very helpful in maintaining my credentials and the networking opportunities are awesome. It’s usually a great time, but this year was a bit subdued from what I remember. The COVID-19 pandemic has made most of us hermits. It was a good time, though; I learned a lot and made a bunch of new friends.

A couple of these new friends hailed from Houston, Texas, and at a soiree the night before I left Charlotte, we talked a bit about what we did outside of sleep. Thinking nothing of it, and plied a little by beer, I casually let it slip that I’m a writer. The next day, as I got to the airport several hours before my flight, I stopped into a restaurant to both have lunch and kill time. In line right in front of me were my new friends from Houston. We chatted and decided to have lunch together, and soon enough one of them asked me about what I said the night before.

Sleep Friend 1: So, you said last night that you write?

Me: Jeez, you remembered that?

SF1: Of course, I find that fascinating. What do you write?

Me: Fiction, mostly. Short stories and a couple of novels. I do some blogging, too.

Sleep Friend 2: Oh, nice! Anything published? Might we have heard of you?

Me: Well, I’ve self-published two novels. Sports-related fiction. I’m working on some other stuff here and there.

SF2: That’s amazing! Where can I find you? Are you on Amazon? Do you have a website?

I directed them to this website, which they checked immediately. And while they seemed impressed (or at the very least, complimentary), a flurry of “oh, crap” thoughts filled my head.

Oh, crap, my first book wasn’t so great. Do I warn them about that?

Oh, crap, I haven’t updated the site in months.

Oh, crap, I never took down that “Coming Soon” banner. What if they ask about it?

Oh, crap, I haven’t written any new fiction in, like, a year.

Oh, crap, now I gotta write.

I don’t know why that last one got me so anxious. I love writing; it’s why I’m even in this position. I love telling stories. I’ve dreamed of making it as an author since I was a teenager. So why is speaking it into existence so very stressful? Why does my heart race when I tell people I’m a writer?

I have no way of knowing if either one of my friends in Houston ever looked at my site again. If you’re out there, reading this, drop a comment and say hello. What I do know is that I told them I was a writer. So, yeah, now I gotta write.

No pressure.