Flash-frozen Terror

There are some experiences that need a decent amount of time between happening and being committed to the stark black and white reality of hammered out words. My time at the hospital is one of them. I am okay, but sometimes the fear of what you live through is not exorcised by writing, but rather becomes flash-frozen terror. Right now, I need to try and move forward, rather than dwell on things.

It’s partly my fear of dwelling on things that has me on the brink of accepting what I recognise is an almost certifiably stupid gig. In the next few days, I will probably sign a deal to write a new book with the delivery date of February 16th. In my condition, I recognise that this is insane. I know it will probably kill me to try and produce 100,000 definitive words on organised crime in the space of a few weeks whilst trying to cope with the medical situation. I know this. I really do know this.

However, I need to eat and pay rent. More importantly, I don’t know how else I can cope with Christmas, New Year, AM’s birthday, Valentines and our anniversary without the sheer deadline-inspired terror of trying to write this book. The workload may physically kill me or induce a catatonic breakdown, but I’d rather take my chances with the book than the risk of not having something to shut out the pain over the next three months’ worth of significant dates. AM had it a lot easier. Even when we were separated, I was there for Christmas and anniversaries so she that didn’t have to go through them alone.

I also know that the narrowed reality and 16-hour working days of writing a book will keep my focus on something other than clinic visits, treatment schedules and the actual unpleasantness of being sick for the next few months. There is no time to linger on physical symptoms when you are facing an insane deadline, a pile on Interpol reports to dissect and a 2,000 word per day count to aim at.