New Non-Scientific Information About Not Good Enough Syndrome

By Andrew E. Kaufman, author of psychological thrillers 

I’m reaching a point in my current manuscript where I feel as though I’m starting to get a handle on things.

Well, that’s a relative term.

One never truly has a handle on things when one suffers from what is known as Not Good Enough Syndrome. You may have heard of this affliction. It’s non-specific, widely undocumented, and for the most part, difficult to diagnose.

Symptoms may include:

• Self doubt
• Self-loathing
• Second-guessing everything.
• Not liking anything.
• Lack of inspiration, ideas, or sanity.
• Isolated episodes of global panic (with intermittent aspirations of world-building).
• Private, self-contained tantrums, which can range in severity.

 And there are subcategories, and of course, I have a few of those as well. Currently I’m in the throes of, There Aren’t Enough Damned Twists in this Book! (Yes! There is an actual exclamation point at the end! A demarcation of severity!)

Here are how my symptoms express themselves: If you have a thriller, then you’ve got to have twists. The problem—at least for me—is they never come easily. Hard as I try, I’m never able to simply think those up. Usually, they must arrive on their own terms.  What this means is, there’s a lot of waiting. Some non-secular praying to nobody in particular. Perhaps what might even resemble a highly specialized, ancient ritual (translation: A lot of stomping and often loud, nonverbal communication).

This is my process, and as weird as it might be, and as hard as I’ve tried to change it, I’ve come to accept that I can’t.  In some ways, I suppose, this has benefits, because it doesn’t often allow me the luxury of resting on my laurels—that’s another condition known as, Good Enough Syndrome (or in the layman’s vernacular, Just Plain Lazy).

So, what’s the prognosis? The treatment? How does one manage such seemingly unmanageable symptoms? After years of intensive study and observation, I’ve found a few tactics.  Just in case you, or someone you love, suffers, I’ll share my detailed and highly non-scientific findings:

• Allow the ideas and words to come, and DON’T PANIC when they won’t—they will. They always do.
• Know that the harder the struggle (and if you don’t give up) the better the work.
• Never (Never!) compare your work to someone else’s. You are not them, and they are not you. Doing this will only take you to the Dark Place. I’ve been there. Trust me, It’s ugly.
• Exercise will clear the cobwebs and help hasten the muse.
• Externalizing your thought process is like breathing fresh air. It can be as easy has having someone sit and listen while you ramble on.
• Music can stir the emotions and ignite ideas in ways few other things can.
• Understand that anxiety will distort things and take you to Crazy Town.  Another ugly place.
• When you’ve reached a clear impasse, it’s time to stop.
• Don’t forget why you write.

Back to work for me.

Onward, brave soldiers.

Dogs, Manuscripts, Parallells, and Other Seemingly Obscure Observations

By Andrew E. Kaufman, author of psychological thrillers

It’s kind of funny. Well, actually not funny, funny, but more, it’s interesting.

I’m talking about parallels and how life can often hurl them when least expected. I’ve always known this but still manage to sort of forget.

Sort of.

And when I sort of do, life sort of responds by sending me a gentle reminder. Actually, it’s more like a gentle kick to the ass.

Case in point: I recently adopted a new member to the family, a fuzzy, adorable ball of cuteness named Trick. I got her for my other fuzzy, adorable, ball of cuteness (brown variety) named Caleb, who seemed lonely and in need of a playmate. The other fuzzies wanted no part of him (Two of those. I know a 1:4 human-to-dog ratio. Don’t even ask)

Unfortunately, my good intentions didn’t work out as expected—that’s actually an understatement. What actually happened during the introduction, was a rather unpleasant and disagreeable scene. There was some growling. Some snarling. Perhaps even a few bared and pointy teeth. In other words, there was a problem.

I can’t quite remember clearly, but here’s how the events played out soon after: friends were called, a trainer was called (two of those). There was some panic, some frantic begging, and possibly some delirious and angst-ridden pleas for help (I’m not sure. I can’t remember).  In essence, the panic button had been pushed. Sirens went off. Red lights twirled and flashed. Mayday was officially declared.

The first trainer arrived.

And after Caleb maliciously attacked a stuffed Rottweiler (apparently the gold standard for ferreting out bad seeds among the pack), said trainer delivered a grim prognosis, along with a lot of frowning, hand wringing, and labeling.  In effect, she called Caleb a deeply troubled problem child with an irreversible, aggressive nature, and (gasp!) even dangerous. After throwing her hands up (well, she first used them to slap me with a hefty bill), off she went.

I didn’t like that.

Enter the second trainer, who presented an entirely opposite theory. According to her, Caleb got a bad rap. He wasn’t aggressive at all, just a bit overzealous in his excitement, and Trick misinterpreted it. A simple case of two dogs sending off the wrong signals. Her prognosis: good to excellent.

A few weeks later, as evidence of persistence (and testament to staying calm under adversity), I present to you, the bone chewing contest.

Yep. Two inseparable friends-for-life, who can’t stop playing and loving on each other.

Now, the parallel.

As all this was playing out, the timing couldn’t have been worse for dad (that’s me) who was in the throes of trying to complete his work-in-progress. A fast-approaching deadline was looming. My story and characters were being disagreeable and combative. The situation was tense, and nerves were fraying. To put it mildly, I was a wreck. To put it in context, the dogs wouldn’t hunt.

I didn’t like that, either.

Once again, there was some growling. Some snarling. Perhaps even A few bared and pointy teeth (This time, mine).

And again, I pushed the button and called in the trainer (well, actually, a good friend and trusted advisor), who had a look at the manuscript. We kicked some ideas around, and after intense, restructured training, the dogs were off and running, the kingdom safe from near-impending doom.

The lessons here (other than my apparent ability to string two seemingly uncommon events together).  I present them in numerical fashion for more cohesive and clear impact.

1. Persistence always pays.
2. Strong people ask for help.
3. We can learn a lot from the dogs
4. Never trust anyone who hates on your kid.
5. Don’t panic!

Oh, and when all else fails? There is always (always!) coffee. And chocolate.