When you write, somewhere between contraction (tension) and relaxation is something that might be named as the dead-zone.
It’s a Bermuda triangle meets house of funny mirrors meets an everyday.
This zone will take on many disguises, and the nasty part is that there is an important value somewhere within it. This important, albeit fractional value, is what keeps us within its tentacles. Even when describing it, I get overrun by metaphors — it’s a dark cave that promises you light during a time when fire hasn’t been invented — and you know it. This is the elite department of doubt. In this dead-zone lure powers that would shame future chess computers. It has the passing skills of Barcelona football club, where they pass the ball, using a modest speed, making you think you can catch it without realizing that you’re being torn apart. The essence of this dead-zone is run on time-play.
When you enter this area, you’ll sense internal phrases connected to time. Such as, ‘this will only take a second,’ — ‘just a little bit more’ — and so on. Compare this to playing chess for 24 hours, as opposed to playing chess with a five-minute countdown timer. Both methods have values, but the dead-zone has a way of luring you away from quick decision thinking. You’ll need both skills. Your IQ is of no use in the dead-zone, but it tells you that it is. I’m mentioning this area because if you’re going to write, you’re going to train yourself to be as fit as a beet farmer’s mule against this force.
To get out — you’ll first have to figure out a way to spot when you’re in this hostile, volatile environment because when you’re in there, it’ll feel like you’re not in there at all. -
In baby-language: When you spot doubt, act
Measure: Check if you’re in the dead-zone by making quick decisions — if it’s hard, you’ll know that you’re in the dead-zone