Recently, I got to go to Minneapolis and meet my editor, Andrew Karre. It was was a lot of fun, and I had this whole plan to do a blog post about it, but it was at the end of huge trip, and since I’ve got home I’ve had a massive head cold and a tooth extraction, so I only really remember two salient points:
1. It’s pronounced “Nine”-a’s.
2. The following conversation:
Andrew: [something about the editing schedule]
Me: I’m not really a panicker.
Andrew: I’ve noticed.
So yes. I went to Minneapolis and told my editor something he already knew (and a thing about Shakespeare that he suspected, but I can’t tell you what that was yet).
Since the conversation, I’ve been trying to remember the last time I panicked*, and I think I’ve finally come up with it. The second time I was in Jordan, we went to a Turkish Bath at the end of the field season. After the sauna and the hot pool, it was time for the exfoliation. I have exceptionally clear memories of this tiny Jordanian woman saying “off the top, please”, and then reaching for my bathing suit when I stared at her blankly. I didn’t react when she pulled it over my head, and then it dawned on me that I was in a room full of women and I was half naked (I mean, so was almost everyone else. But for some reason that was different). I felt it start, that bubble in your stomach you can’t contain, and then I thought to myself “Self, this is going to take half an hour. You can lose your shit** for thirty minutes, or you can calm down and deal with it.”
I dealt with it***.
Since then, there have been other moments, other times I felt that bubble start up. Most recently was probably when the doctor called on July 29 to tell me that my surgery was on August 1. But the bubble never forms. Somehow I reason myself out of it.
It’s not really “somehow”. It’s almost always “someone”. Either I call my sister or text Emma or channel Sydney Bristow, and everything evens out. I have an excellent support system.
Sometimes I think not being a panicker is weird in publishing. I see people on twitter and worry that I SHOULD be panicking, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. I think I got a lot of that worked out of me in my undergrad, when I had the Minerva McGonagall of Near Eastern Archaeology for a professor in almost half of my classes. Once you’ve gone through that learning curve, everything else seems remarkably straightforward.
So stress and worry, but not panic. I feel like I should offer advice, but I don’t really have any****. I think it comes down to the whole “do what works for you” adage that writers roll with. Some people panic, and it helps them. They tend to talk about it, so people who DON’T panic wonder if they’re doing something wrong. I can tell you that you’re not.
And I’m going to spend the next three days thinking that I’ve tempted the wrath of the whatever from high atop the thing, and there’s panic coming my way. But I’ll deal with it. Because apparently that’s what I do.
*Here, “panic” shall NOT be what I do when I have a flashback. Those are different and I deal with them differently. Maybe I should deal with them the same way, and then I’d have them less? This is probably another blog post.
**I didn’t really think this. I didn’t swear in 2005. The internet has ruined me.
***Turkish baths are the BEST, you guys. If you ever go to the Middle East, find a safe one and GO. Wear a two-piece. Your pores will thank you.
****Except to go to a Turkish bath, see above.