Someone (marc snowman) asked me, “Why do you think you worry?”
Of course, I didn’t know the answer and I started to worry about it!
His reply was, “Because it makes you feel like you’re doing something about it.”
Aha moment…if I worry about something, I feel like I am doing something about what I’m worrying about. I am letting myself seep into the illusion of control, instead of doing what I can about a situation and then letting it go because I have no control over the outcome.
My mind went to my worries and I felt like those worries were bigger and needed some control — about my kids, my book, my renewed fear of flying etc. But the truth is, my level of worry is always high, even if it is about being five minutes late to an appointment. Can you relate?
Emma, my character in “Inside the River,” worries. She created a bubble around her for many years and so bounced her worries off of it and let it come back inside. She cradled the wounds of her past like a newborn, as if each new situation would end up like her painful memories. Her worry became her armor and it gave her a sense of control…as if she was doing something about it. She is written in first person and so her worry is related to the reader as it happened, without the distance of a narrator. You feel it with each private outburst that I let the reader witness. You know those moments when you unleash your tension when you’re alone?
As Emma says,
I walked into my room and turned on some music. I closed my eyes and let myself surrender to the rhythm. I was feeling and hearing the music in a new way and allowing my limbs a response. My feet stomped against the floor. I made sounds. Grunts. Sighs. Exhalations of all that was not needed any longer. The movements of my hips were fluid. I twirled around and around, and let my wild mane whip against the air. Inside this dizzying attempt to find the butterflies, I stuck out my tongue and moved with freedom.
Then the tears came, quick and hard, like a sun shower. I cried as I continued dancing, my movements more aggressive as if I could lash out at the sadness washing over me. I kicked the air with my legs. I punched the space around me with my fists. My sensual dance looked like a seizure, my body stuttering with anger. If Antonio walked in to witness my outburst would he regret sharing his precious story?