The Itchy Underarm of Publishing Anxiety


This is what the inside of
my brain looks like.
In real life?
The shelves are EMPTY

Have you ever fallen asleep at 6pm just to awaken at 11:30pm because your underarms are chapped and the only thing you can find to relieve the incessant desire to scratch is feminine itch cream?

Man, this sounds familiar! That’s because the same tube of cream was the first thing I found when I was looking for something to relieve the burn in my hand when I picked up the wrong end of a hot fireplace poker several months ago.  The difference is, my hand didn’t have enough hair growing on it to make a toupee.  If the hairs weren’t attached, I could say Schrödinger’s cat had been hiding there, but I doubt even Schrödinger could neglect his cat for that long.

How did I let things get that bad? I’ll be able to tell you…on the same day I understand quantum physics.  And that, my friends, will happen when hell freezes over.

What is my hypothesis for such an unsightly oversight (and yes–I do bathe regularly)?    Writing.

If I’m not writing a blog, I’m writing an email, or writing for work, or writing books. That’s a lot of writing for a woman who has as yet published little more than 100 blog entries, a few newsletter articles and a poem in a magazine.

To tell you how lame that is–I’m not even a poet. That’s my son’s job. I have about as much hope of understanding the brilliant mind of my son, or his poetry, as I have of understanding quantum physics.

Where am I going with this?

It’s bad enough to wake up to an itch-a-thon, but to do so during an anxiety attack is doubly disturbing.  What could cause me to slide into panic mode?

The purpose of my 2 trips to California, where I experienced that gigantic anxiety attack called Bowling for Passengers in airports, was to nag my sister into editing my manuscript (as described in “Writing When You Ain’t Quite Right”).  What could be worse than that? My friend and my family have encouraged me to start the process of publication on Amazon.

I made the mistake of trying to slog through all the information I’ve saved up about self-publishing…


Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be buried under 6 tons of data? Better yet, have you tried slogging through 6 tons of data with a text reader?   I can hear BuffaloTom laughing at me at this very moment.   And he would be well within his rights.

Hell, I might as take a leap of faith off a cliff in the dark or walk across the LA freeway wearing a blindfold.

Some day, probably when I’m comatose from anxiety and my children have picked my nursing home, my book might have a chance to be published. But right now it looks like that’s going to be on a cold day in hell.