Lately, writing and I have not been getting along well. My freelancing work is going great guns – I’ve become a regular idea machine, stockpiling commissions and invoices to see me through the 4-6 weeks I’ll have to take off in a couple of months to go back to Australia, visit friends and family, get married and go on my honeymoon.

This here blog is going well too, with a flood of new followers (hi there!) thanks to Tumblr very kindly featuring me in its writers spotlight, despite the 75 hour weeks (for serious – I added it up on a calculator) not leaving me much time to write anything of substance. I will try to write you some better content soon, I promise.

But when it comes to the really serious, important stuff, I’ve spent the last few weeks in a state of paralysis. I can feel myself doing it; the way my body resists the moment I start even thinking about the book, heartbeat rising, adrenalin pumping. Twitter, Google Reader and email become a siren call, “just ten more minutes” my catchphrase.

One of the reasons I get scared is the scope. When I’m writing a magazine feature, I have a pretty good idea of how long it’s going to take, what’s going to be involved. I still feel scared each time I jump in the water, but I know that after X hours I’ll be finished, abuzz with the rush of success.

The book, on the other hand, has no such end in sight. Even each chapter is so big and complex that there’s no end on the horizon. I know that each dive will take weeks (sometimes months) of writing, deleting, rewriting and restructuring until finally what is in the word document begins to resemble what is in my brain. So, too often, I don’t jump at all – or I leave it until the last minute and then beat myself up for self-sabotaging.

I’ve also realised recently that I’m not just afraid of failure, but of success as well. As the things I have been working towards (too slowly, too ploddingly) for the past three and a half years begin to come closer to the fruition, I am beginning to develop a clearer picture of what next year and the one after might look like. Which is exciting, but also terrifying.

Because what if I can’t do it? What if I can’t draw all the threads together? Or the months I spend on the road “kills” my marriage? (How many men, I wonder, worry that career success will be the death of their relationship?) What if I don’t have time to do my freelancing anymore? (And thus maintain the work relationships I have spent years building.) What if I collapse under the weight of the relentless churn?

But this is meant to be a good news story - about how I’m making peace with all of the above. About my efforts to “make friends” with my book again, so that it stops seeming scary and starts seeming fun. Or at least doable.

One thing I’m trying to do is remember that I’m human, not super human, and that’s okay. That sometimes my mind or my body will falter, but that’s to be expected. That things will probably take longer than I want them too (they always do, for everyone), but they will get done eventually.

I’m also trying to be a little bit less invested in my work and productivity; to take each day as it comes and to go with my instincts. I don’t have to get up at Xam if I don’t want to. I don’t have to go to yoga if I’d rather work, or get everything on my to do list done if I’d rather exercise.

But the most important part of my making peace with the book is to set a daily date with it. Not a long one (that’s too intimidating for me at the moment), but a daily appointment of at least an hour where I have no choice but to wrestle and engage with it. The equivalent of meeting a stranger for a quick drink, where you have the excuse to go home afterwards if you’re not “clicking”. Once our relationship starts improving, I’ll bump it up to dinner dates and eventually sleep overs.

An hour doesn’t sound like much, but you can actually get a lot done in an hour if you focus. Certainly more than you can get done in no hours. And the daily rhythm of the commitment calms me.

How do you cope with “fear of writing”? Or “fear of creating” more generally?

Related: Seven enviable lines: advice for freelance writers
Why hiring a writing coach was the best $240 I ever spent
The Sex Myth