Writing When You’re Afraid
Merriam-Webster defines fear as “an unpleasant often strong emotion caused by anticipation or awareness of danger.” (1) Lately, I’ve become more and more aware of the powerful role that fear plays in my life. Earlier this year, I went on medical leave for a few weeks. I thought I was depressed, and to some extent, this was true. However, once I slowed down enough to process what was going on behind the scenes in my mind and body, I realized there was something deeper than depression lurking in the shadows.
Fear.
As the great and powerful Wizard of Oz once said: “Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.” (2)
I think what has been the most mind-boggling part of my own journey with this has been trying to understand what exactly I’m afraid of. I catch myself tensing up in all sorts of places: in the car; at the grocery store; at work; heck, even on the couch in front of the TV. This habitual tension has messed up my jaw. I clench it so often that it’s become a clicking, clunking wad of pain in my face. Did you hear that echoing crack that shook the earth a minute ago? Yeah, that was me yawning.
My understanding is that we tense our bodies as a form of protection. I suppose it makes sense that our bodies would want to be ready to spring into action should they be faced with sudden danger, such as a meteor shower or an unexpected ninja attack. Beyond this, though, tensing our muscles also provides us with a certain sense of control. The world may be spinning out from under us, but gosh darn it, at least we’re holding ourselves together while it does. The control is comforting, albeit limited. If you let it become a habit—as I did—it will inflict damage, the very thing you were trying to avoid.
All this to say that fear is a double agent. It will pretend to take your side, but it is secretly selling your information to enemy operatives. When you eventually keel over in hopeless exhaustion after holding yourself in a state of hypertension for weeks or months or years, it’s no skin off its teeth.
So, how do we fight back? How do we begin to recognize the fear patterns in our lives and actually do something about them? Here are a handful of ways that we as writers can stop fear from leeching into our workspace and approach our craft with courage.
Help your body out
Fear often manifests physically. It sits in the back, the shoulders, the abs, the chest, the neck, the jaw… Basically any part of you that’s made of cells. If you’re like me, you may not actually realize you’re anxious until your body starts to feel weird. Like, huh, my shoulders are throbbing. Why am I hunching up like Gollum over the one ring? Or, huh, that’s the fifth shooting chest pain I’ve had in an hour. Come to think of it, I’m not really breathing at the moment. Interesting. I should probably do something about that.
When your body sends you stress signals, don’t ignore them. The first step is acknowledging their presence; then you can try to do something about them. Basic, common sense stuff, like look in a different direction from the thing that is currently stressing you out (i.e. the computer screen). Roll your shoulders a few times. Unclench your jaw. Stop tensing your ab muscles and take a full breath. In short: Relax. If, for whatever reason, writing is the thing that is stressing you out, do what you can to make the experience more bearable. You may need to get up and go stick your head outside for a breath of fresh air. Or switch seats so that you are in a more comfortable location. Or, you may just need to keep taking deep breaths, keep dropping those shoulders as you work. Listen to your body and give yourself a fighting chance to calm down. If you can calm your body, you stand a much better chance of calming your mind.
2. Show up
Often, the hardest part of any challenge is showing up to face it in the first place. Starting a workout, making a phone call (introverts, can I get an amen?), mopping the floor, having a difficult conversation with a loved one… Don’t get me wrong, those tasks can be painful all throughout (especially mopping the floor), but once you’ve started, at least you’re running on momentum. The thing inside you that gets satisfaction out of seeing tasks through to the end kicks in and urges you to keep going.
I have been going through a season lately where it has been harder to make myself sit down and write. I think I’m fearful that I’m going to write “the wrong thing” or that I won’t know what to write at all. If I pull on that thread, I realize that on an even deeper level, I’m afraid that I’m going to mess up my writing career, that the stories I care about will stay forever trapped inside me, and that I will ultimately prove to be a failure. This all feels like a bit much when I think about it like that, but you know what? When I force myself to just sit down and do the thing, the fear usually goes away—or at least it shrinks to a size where I can toss it into the junk drawer to deal with later.
Here’s the truth of it: I love writing. And if you’re reading this, there’s a good chance that you love writing too. Something about it makes your bunched-up, tangled-up soul feel like it’s unraveling a bit, like suddenly there’s life springing up inside you that you didn’t even know existed. To those of us who love the craft, the very act of writing can be healing—even when it’s slow. Even when it’s uncertain. Even when you want to chuck your computer off the balcony and call it a day. There’s just something about it: it brings you joy, gives you strength, makes you brave. But you’re not going to tap into that reservoir of courage unless you push through the initial paralyzing fear and face the blank page.
3. Be an intentional friend to yourself
If you’re feeling fearful or anxious, your knee-jerk reaction may be to push yourself harder. But it’s amazing how gentleness can diffuse defensiveness; in others, yes, but also in yourself. Instead of berating yourself for struggling—or ignoring the struggle altogether—try cheering yourself on. Slow down and appreciate your work. It takes courage, care, vulnerability, curiosity, passion, and dogged determination to be a serious writer. Celebrate those qualities in yourself. Enjoy your ideas, your own peculiar way of thinking. If you had a best friend who was feeling fearful or discouraged, what would you say to them? Maybe that’s the thing you should be saying to yourself.
4. Punch your fear in the face
Maybe literally.
I hold that taking up martial arts has done wonders for my mental and physical well-being. (See last week’s post on how to Write Like a Martial Artist.)
In your day-to-day existence, however, it’s probably best to keep your fists to yourselves—so what are we talking about here?
Simply this: Call your fear out. Name it. As soon as you identify what exactly you’re afraid of, the power goes out of it like a dead battery. The shell of it is still there, but the juice is gone.
Now, obviously this doesn’t work in every situation. If you’re about to jump out the back of an airplane and the wind is ripping around you and the clouds look like fluffy bunnies way down below and you’re just trying not to pee your pants in terror, it’s not going to help to pause over the drop zone and say, “I’m afraid of heights and I’m afraid that my parachute won’t open and I will pancake all over some god-forsaken field down there and I will stay alive just long enough to feel the excruciating pain as all of my bones shatter and then I will die.” In that situation, it’s better just to jump.
However, when it comes to the lurking fears that we carry with us day-to-day like some sort of marsupial mother toting about her young, it can help to take a look in the pouch every now and then and see what sort of creature we’re nurturing in there. If you’re sitting hunched over your keyboard with your shoulders cranked up to your ears and your lip caught between your teeth, it might be helpful to realize: Ah. I’m worried this chapter actually sucks. I’m worried that, because it sucks so much, no agent will work with me and I will therefore never be published and I will inevitably die alone and my books will never be read and my existence will have been meaningless. *grabs human skull from the corner of writing desk and launches into a Hamlet’s graveyard monologue* Alas, poor Yorick!
Here's the thing: When you recognize that all of those fears are simmering below the surface of your knot-filled shoulders and gnawed-on lower lip, you give yourself the chance to get the better of them. “Wait a moment,” you can say, setting the skull back on the desk, “that’s a load of melodramatic bull crap. My meaning and existence don’t depend on my writing of books. And if I really want it to happen, there’s a good chance that I will be published one day—I can be humble and patient in the meantime. And maybe this chapter does indeed suck, but you know what? It’s not all bad. I bet I can make it better. Let’s everyone calm down, shall we?” (Although, if you’re referring to yourself as “everyone,” there might be a bigger concern there besides just dealing with some stress or insecurity. Just some food for thought.)
Let’s leave it there for today. It’s time to get out there and write bravely! (And when I say, “get out there,” I obviously mean curl up in your favourite nook and shut out the rest of the world for a while.)
It’s going to be okay. You’re doing fine. Just write.
Merriam-Webster.com Dictionary, s.v. “fear,” accessed September 26, 2025, https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/fear.
The Wizard of Oz, directed by Victor Fleming, (1939, Culver City, CA: Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, 1993), video.