A personal attack on myself disguised as self reflection
There is a demon that lives in my brain.
Not the cool kind, not the sexy gothic kind lurking in cemeteries and whispering sinful seductions into the night.
No. This one just squats inside my skull, chewing on electrical wires and filling out my executive function paperwork incorrectly.
This is the demon responsible for the phenomenon I like to call The Great Cognitive Imbalance, wherein I, an allegedly competent adult, can produce an entire novel’s worth of story in a single, delirious, chaotic night, yet cannot summon the emotional fortitude to click “reply” on an email that contains zero conflict, zero stakes, and zero reason for panic.
Let me set the scene.
It is 10:57 p.m. I'm wrapped in a hoodie that technically counts as both outfit and emotional shield.
My desk is a battlefield of half finished beverages, a wadded up Post-it note containing something I once believed was important, and an expired granola bar I refuse to throw away on principle.
Somewhere in that chaos, inspiration strikes.
No warning. No buildup. No gentle caress of the muse’s hand. Just a sudden, feral lightning bolt to the brain that whispers Write. Now. Do not blink. Do not think. Do not even breathe too deeply or the spell will break.
And suddenly, I am alive.
I am unstoppable. I am vibrating on a spiritual frequency not recognized by OSHA regulations. My fingers are tapping out dialogue like the characters are physically threatening me with a knife from inside the screen.
And without even noticing, I have written forty seven pages, redesigned an entire subplot, given two side characters trauma arcs they did not ask for, and accidentally created a world building spreadsheet that I will never look at again.
It is 4:12 a.m.
I do not know my name, but I know my protagonist’s blood type. I have become one with the night and also with my lower back pain. This is the height of my power.
And then, in the cold sterile light of morning, I open my inbox. And there it is. A simple email. Friendly. Polite. Perhaps it says something like, “Hi! Need to set up a quick one-on-one. What's your schedule look like?” But somehow, my brain reacts as though someone has handed me a live grenade and whispered Good luck.
My soul attempts to eject itself from my body. My hands, which hours ago were capable of typing seventeen emotionally devastating paragraphs in one breath, now dangle uselessly at my sides like damp linguine noodles. My breathing becomes suspiciously loud. My ancestors begin shaking their heads. My vision tunnels.
Because replying to an email, you see, is real. It exists in the physical plane. It involves responsibility, accountability, follow through.
It may require attaching a document.
It might require opening my calendar, which is about as organized as a ferret rave held in a storage unit.
Creating a fictional world in one night requires none of these things. If I mess up, no one knows. If I forget a detail, I can invent a new one. If a scene falls apart, I can duct tape it with new facts and circumstances.
But an email? An email demands precision. It demands tone awareness. It demands that I confront the fact that another human being is waiting on me.
My brain does not like being perceived. It likes writing three thousand words on a character’s emotional breakdown at 2 a.m. It does not like Brenda from HR asking if Tuesday or Wednesday works better.
And so the email sits there, glowing at me like an accusation.
Hours pass. Days. Archaeologists could carbon date it.
Eventually the follow up arrives. “Hey, just checking in!” Which is the professional equivalent of,
“Hello. I am haunting you now.” And of course I read that and spiral for another forty eight hours before finally responding with something like “So sorry for the delay, things got away from me.”
Things. Got away. As though my life is a pile of laundry that sprouted legs and ran out the front door.
But the truth is simple. My brain prioritizes emotional urgency over practical necessity. The novel whispers. The email yawns. Guess which one wins.
So yes. I can draft a whole book in the witching hours, fueled by panic, caffeine, and the raw chaos of my inner gremlin. But the email? The tiny, harmless, utterly benign email? That will require a ritual, three deep breaths, a snack I do not need, a full emotional pep talk, and possibly divine intervention.
At this point in my life, I have stopped trying to fight it. Because the novel gets written. The email gets answered. Eventually.
Probably.
And if my process is held together with intention, panic, and a suspicious number of beverages, who cares.It works.
Sort of.
Most days.
Anyway, I should probably reply to that email now. Right after I reorganize my desk. And read this one sentence of my manuscript. And suddenly, somehow, write another 8,000 words.
