Writing is such a psychological practice and lately I’ve been a complete and utter headcase.

For months, I was humming along on the second draft of my novel, keeping my head down and simply working on the scene in front of me that day. But the farther I got into the draft, the more real it started to feel, and the more scared I became. An old but familiar anxiety started to creep in—first to my nighttime hours and then into my days, too. For a couple weeks now, I’ve been in near-constant panic, trying every way I can to avoid myself, avoid the work, avoid my feelings about myself and the work.

Enter: a much-needed vacation. My husband had a work trip in a warm, tropical location so I decided to tag along, get some writing done while he’s in his meetings. This morning, I woke up from another long night of tossing and turning and dragged myself down to the boardwalk for a run. After I finished, tired but still wired, I walked along the short stretch of beach to try and clear my head. This area has been ravaged by hurricanes of late and the shells are a pretty clear indication of how rough the surf has been; the sand is littered with thousands of broken, jagged pieces. Even the ones that look intact from afar are imperfect up close.

But damn, are they beautiful. Even the ones that are cracked and splintered, the edges still rough and jagged. As I walked, head bent low looking for treasure, I had a revelation: Isn’t this all writing is, digging beautiful, broken pieces from the sand and polishing them off, one at a time? If that’s true then the real question is not whether I have any talent or whether I’ll have success, but if I have the courage to keep hunting for the treasure buried within me, even when most of what I find there is imperfect.

I have to believe, deep down, that I do. Time to get back to work.