Like many creative people, I do not truly understand my own brain.

Case in point: My backyard had gone to the dogs over the summer–quite literally. My two bored dogs had trashed my container garden, pooped copiously and torn up various pilfered items.
The mess was so daunting that I stopped going outside. Deadlines loomed, negotiations distracted, family drama boiled over.
On National Dog Day, I decided to do something about the problem. I hired a poop service.
Then miracles happened. By the simple act of having a SINGLE chore removed from my life, I found myself able to attack the dead plants, the litter, and exercise my poor bored fuzzy ones.
I could have done those things at any time during the last two months. Bathing a dog takes 20 minutes, max. Replanting a pot takes 10. A game of ball will have a dog panting in 5.
But I suffered from Overwhelm. When matters degraded past a certain point, my brain and will and inborn compulsiveness melted down and I was paralyzed by the simple act of THINKING about the back yard.
I felt like a glitchy Roomba, repeatedly butting against the wall, forgetting how to turn and tackle things from another angle.
Now, the way in which this tale of poop and vacuuming robots pertains to writing a novel:
I have written 20 full novels and some other stuff, too. However, it never fails that in the beginning of a book, at some point I will stare in terror at that blinking cursor and think, “500 pages. 500 EMPTY pages. I can’t fill that! That’s a whole goddam ream of paper! NOBODY can fill that!”
“Who the hell do I think I am???”
Paralysis.
Fortunately, I am neurotic, but teachable. I have learned over the years to do a few basic things. I back up and come at things from a different angle. I plot. I make notes. I draw characters. I daydream (so glad to get my pretty patio back!). And then, slowly, tentatively, I begin to write. I try to do so without judgment or editing. After all, it’s just “practice.” I probably won’t use any of it, I tell myself. If I don’t like it I can toss it.
Sometimes, in the depths of the deepest paralysis (which has only happened a few times, thank heaven!) I write longhand–just to prove to myself that it doesn’t matter. Crayon is very convincing in this instance. Or chalk on a chalkboard might do well. I will keep that in mind. The ephemeral nature of paper and pen convinces my panicked consciousness that it doesn’t “matter.” If it doesn’t matter, it can’t fail, right? Or worse, perhaps, succeed?
Then I warm up. The characters start to show up. The settings become real rooms, real landscapes in my mind. The movie starts to play.
Suddenly, I am impatient with the plotting and the notes and the pen and paper. Words are pouring out and the only way to get them down efficiently is to sit down at the computer and make that damned cursor my bitch. I often don’t even realize that I’m doing it until I finish and look around and realize that I am in my office–remember that place of dread and fear and imminent, hideous public failure?–and my hands are tired and I have to pee. And there, filling page upon page that shrink the blinking cursor into pallid insignificance is Chapter One. Or maybe the climactic end scene. It doesn’t matter. I never write in order.
I write because that is who I think I am!