WHAT? ME WORRY?
Ummm, hello? Have we met?
It’s International Panic Day. No, I don’t have a typo, although it’s also International Picnic Day. How ironic that both are international and end in “nic”. No, International Panic Day was put out there as a way to intentionally put aside those feelings that can run (and ruin) our lives. Before I go on to this piece of fluff, I want to say that panic attacks are serious, and if you suffer from them, I’m sorry, There is relief out there, and you can learn to take panic by the hand and give it a safe place.
Now, onto the lighter side of panicking. I can say this now because I’ve learned how to work around my anxiety with humor. I’m on my way to the airport. Did I remember to turn the stove off? I feel my heart beat faster, a thin sheen of sweat pricks my hair, and I begin to mentally catalog my movements when a voice whispers, “Well, that would mean you would have needed to turn it on to cook. The same goes for the iron and the coffee pot. You don’t cook, you rarely iron, and you don’t drink coffee.” Got to love that inner voice, ladies and gentlemen. She didn’t quite catch on to that “give it a safe place” part of the lessons, but I’m grateful for her all the same. I also panic when we move into a new house—little figures in full black body suits slither, leap, and climb the walls. Breathing rapidly, my heart knocking so hard it hurts, my inner voice reminds me it isn’t real, just my anxiety. When the hubster is gone, that little voice goes with me to the door as I place a post-it above the lock to remind me I did indeed turn the lock. I’m weird, I know.
But a different kind of panic hit me the other day. It was a sucker punch, truth be told, and there were no snarky voices of reason to calm me down. As many of you know, book five is sitting with my editor, and I am patiently awaiting her comments and rewrites. I’ve paced a lot with this book since I started it almost a year ago. I complained to a fellow writer that whodunit turned out as a complete surprise to me. “Wait a minute there,” some of you are muttering, “you are the writer. You control what happens.” That sounds good in theory, but other writers will tell you it doesn’t always work out that way. Sometimes, and you can ask the great Stephen King about this, the characters are driving the bus, and you are nothing more than the hood ornament.
So, now, as I wait for my editor to send me her thoughts (and yes, I told her about how I was feeling), I’m having second thoughts, actually mini panic attacks. Should I completely rewrite the book? What if my readers revolt? Will they stop reading the series because of what I did? One beta reader actually told me she wouldn’t read another Kennedy Reeves book unless I changed the ending. HARSH! SCARY! FREAKING OUT! Hearing their words, I’ve felt my anxiety rise to levels I haven’t felt since life in corporate America. I’ve even begun redrafting the book. Soup to nuts—making the changes and setting up books six and seven with this new spin.
But then, at two the other morning, the most bizarre thing popped into my head—ALFRED E NEUMAN. You know, the scrawny, red-headed, gap-toothed, big-eared cover model from Mad Magazine who famously said each month, “What, me worry?” For whatever reason, since seeing this cartoon character, I’ve decided to sit on my hands until I hear back from my editor.
What, me worry? These words and his cartoon face led me to do some research. (A great way to stave off a flip-out.) Did you realize the cover model of Mad magazine goes back to the 19th century when a dentist was advertising painless dentistry? (An oxymoron there if I’ve ever heard of one.) My digging led to more. Alfred has been used in political cartoons, college editorials, political write-ins, and a WWII nose on a bomber. He’s also been translated into Latin, Quid, Me Anxius Sum? Made his debut in the magazine in 1954 and cut a record in 1959. Not bad for a kid that looks like he was always the last to be picked for dodgeball and frequently had his milk money stolen.
Sitting up in bed after a less than restful night’s sleep and seeing his face in my mind, that other side of me spoke. “Heellooo, ding dong,” she said, dredging up those junior high feelings of inadequacy and not being liked or accepted into clear focus. “Remember why you loved the magazine?” And it was like a nightlight in a dark room. You see, I had a stack of those Mad magazines, bought with whatever chore and babysitting money I could scrounge. Yes, the inside was funny, but I bought them for another reason—the cover. Alfred taught me not to worry about what other people thought. He was a dork like me and gave me confidence and the ability to shake things off.
So, happy International Panic Day, and if that skinny, gangly cover model can make you feel better? Please use him. He’s cool with it.
It’s International Panic Day. No, I don’t have a typo, although it’s also International Picnic Day. How ironic that both are international and end in “nic”. No, International Panic Day was put out there as a way to intentionally put aside those feelings that can run (and ruin) our lives. Before I go on to this piece of fluff, I want to say that panic attacks are serious, and if you suffer from them, I’m sorry, There is relief out there, and you can learn to take panic by the hand and give it a safe place.
Now, onto the lighter side of panicking. I can say this now because I’ve learned how to work around my anxiety with humor. I’m on my way to the airport. Did I remember to turn the stove off? I feel my heart beat faster, a thin sheen of sweat pricks my hair, and I begin to mentally catalog my movements when a voice whispers, “Well, that would mean you would have needed to turn it on to cook. The same goes for the iron and the coffee pot. You don’t cook, you rarely iron, and you don’t drink coffee.” Got to love that inner voice, ladies and gentlemen. She didn’t quite catch on to that “give it a safe place” part of the lessons, but I’m grateful for her all the same. I also panic when we move into a new house—little figures in full black body suits slither, leap, and climb the walls. Breathing rapidly, my heart knocking so hard it hurts, my inner voice reminds me it isn’t real, just my anxiety. When the hubster is gone, that little voice goes with me to the door as I place a post-it above the lock to remind me I did indeed turn the lock. I’m weird, I know.
But a different kind of panic hit me the other day. It was a sucker punch, truth be told, and there were no snarky voices of reason to calm me down. As many of you know, book five is sitting with my editor, and I am patiently awaiting her comments and rewrites. I’ve paced a lot with this book since I started it almost a year ago. I complained to a fellow writer that whodunit turned out as a complete surprise to me. “Wait a minute there,” some of you are muttering, “you are the writer. You control what happens.” That sounds good in theory, but other writers will tell you it doesn’t always work out that way. Sometimes, and you can ask the great Stephen King about this, the characters are driving the bus, and you are nothing more than the hood ornament.
So, now, as I wait for my editor to send me her thoughts (and yes, I told her about how I was feeling), I’m having second thoughts, actually mini panic attacks. Should I completely rewrite the book? What if my readers revolt? Will they stop reading the series because of what I did? One beta reader actually told me she wouldn’t read another Kennedy Reeves book unless I changed the ending. HARSH! SCARY! FREAKING OUT! Hearing their words, I’ve felt my anxiety rise to levels I haven’t felt since life in corporate America. I’ve even begun redrafting the book. Soup to nuts—making the changes and setting up books six and seven with this new spin.
But then, at two the other morning, the most bizarre thing popped into my head—ALFRED E NEUMAN. You know, the scrawny, red-headed, gap-toothed, big-eared cover model from Mad Magazine who famously said each month, “What, me worry?” For whatever reason, since seeing this cartoon character, I’ve decided to sit on my hands until I hear back from my editor.
What, me worry? These words and his cartoon face led me to do some research. (A great way to stave off a flip-out.) Did you realize the cover model of Mad magazine goes back to the 19th century when a dentist was advertising painless dentistry? (An oxymoron there if I’ve ever heard of one.) My digging led to more. Alfred has been used in political cartoons, college editorials, political write-ins, and a WWII nose on a bomber. He’s also been translated into Latin, Quid, Me Anxius Sum? Made his debut in the magazine in 1954 and cut a record in 1959. Not bad for a kid that looks like he was always the last to be picked for dodgeball and frequently had his milk money stolen.
Sitting up in bed after a less than restful night’s sleep and seeing his face in my mind, that other side of me spoke. “Heellooo, ding dong,” she said, dredging up those junior high feelings of inadequacy and not being liked or accepted into clear focus. “Remember why you loved the magazine?” And it was like a nightlight in a dark room. You see, I had a stack of those Mad magazines, bought with whatever chore and babysitting money I could scrounge. Yes, the inside was funny, but I bought them for another reason—the cover. Alfred taught me not to worry about what other people thought. He was a dork like me and gave me confidence and the ability to shake things off.
So, happy International Panic Day, and if that skinny, gangly cover model can make you feel better? Please use him. He’s cool with it.
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