Confessions of a Professional Overthinker

I overthink everything. Not just writing. Everything.

If someone replies to a message with just "Okay," my brain immediately begins constructing an elaborate conspiracy involving hidden resentment, passive aggression, and perhaps an international plot that somehow traces back to my use of an unnecessary comma.

So it probably comes as no surprise that writing fiction is not exactly a relaxing hobby. People often imagine authors sitting peacefully in quaint little cafés, sipping artisan coffee while words effortlessly pour onto the page. The reality is somewhat different.

Most of us are staring at the same paragraph for forty-five minutes because we're debating whether "walked" or "strode" better reflects the emotional state of someone who has just discovered a body. Spoiler alert. Neither. We end up changing it back to its original version. Being an overthinker is both the greatest strength and greatest curse a writer can possess.

On one hand, we notice everything. Tiny facial expressions. The way someone pauses before answering a question. How people smile differently when they're genuinely happy compared to when they're trying to convince everyone they're fine. Normal people see two strangers sitting quietly in a restaurant. Writers see a couple on the brink of divorce, an undercover detective meeting an informant, or two witches negotiating visitation rights over a pet crow.

Our brains simply refuse to leave well enough alone. Unfortunately, they also refuse to switch off. One of my greatest talents is creating fictional conversations while trying to fall asleep. My brain apparently believes midnight is the ideal time to solve plot holes that have existed perfectly happily for the previous six months.

I've lost count of the number of times I've reached for my cell to type out what felt like a groundbreaking plot twist, only to discover the following morning that I'd written something like:

"He knows about her"

To this day I still don't know who he was, who she was or why she mattered. Another occupational hazard is becoming suspiciously attached to imaginary people. Somewhere around chapter ten they stop doing what you tell them. You introduce a side character who is meant to appear briefly, deliver one important piece of information, and quietly disappear. Instead, they develop a personality. Readers love them. You love them. Now they apparently require an emotional backstory, unresolved childhood trauma, and their own subplot.

Congratulations. Your eighty-thousand-word novel has just become one hundred and twenty thousand words because Steve the bartender unexpectedly developed emotional depth. This is how overthinking spreads. It reproduces.

Then comes research. Now, I enjoy research.

What I don't enjoy is discovering I've spent three hours learning about medieval lock mechanisms despite the fact my characters walk through the door without touching it. Writers are masters of falling down internet rabbit holes. You'll start by researching poisonous plants. Four hours later you're somehow watching a documentary about Icelandic volcanoes while wondering whether ravens can recognize human faces.

They can, by the way. You're welcome.

Sometimes research genuinely matters. I learned that lesson the hard way after almost making a geographical mistake that would have immediately destroyed my credibility with readers familiar with the location. (Thank God for the keen eye of my editor) Other times...

Other times I have absolutely no explanation for why I now know seventeen different methods of preserving cheese. The overthinking continues during editing. This is where the real psychological games begin. Suddenly every sentence looks wrong. Every metaphor feels dramatic. Every joke becomes painfully unfunny. You begin questioning whether your protagonist even has a personality or if they're simply wandering through the plot making increasingly questionable life decisions.

Actually... That last one might be intentional.

Then comes my personal favorite. Second guessing every single scene. Is it too long? Too short? Too emotional? Not emotional enough? Will readers understand the symbolism? Was there symbolism? Did I accidentally invent symbolism? At some point every writer becomes convinced they've forgotten how words work entirely.

This is perfectly normal. I think. Perhaps the strangest habit writers develop is people watching. I promise we're not creepy. Mostly. We're simply...observational.

Someone laughs too loudly in a supermarket and we're wondering what insecurity they're masking. A teenager slams a car door and we're mentally drafting a coming-of-age novel. (or murder novel if it's your teenager and your car door) An elderly couple quietly holding hands becomes an entire fifty-year romance complete with heartbreak, reconciliation, and one suspiciously grumpy golden retriever.

Real life is basically free inspiration. Which is slightly unfortunate for everyone around us. Friends will tell me stories about disastrous dates or awkward family dinners. They're looking for sympathy. I'm quietly wondering if I can borrow that dialogue. Don't worry. I'll change your name. Probably.

Of course, overthinking is not always helpful. Sometimes it becomes fear. Fear that the story isn't good enough. Fear that readers won't connect. Fear that somewhere, somehow, somebody will discover the enormous plot hole you've somehow overlooked despite reading the manuscript twenty-seven billion times.

Publishing has a wonderful way of amplifying these fears. The more I learned about querying, editing, marketing, blurbs, and publishing, the more opportunities I found to doubt myself. Imposter syndrome practically becomes a co-author.

But here's the strange thing. Overthinking also creates depth.

Because writers spend so much time asking "why," our characters often become more believable. Why would they react like this? Why are they afraid? Why do they lie? Why do they love someone they know they shouldn't?

Those endless questions shape every scene.

Readers may never see the ninety percent of character history living inside the writer's head, but they feel it. That's what makes fictional people seem real. Perhaps the biggest confession of all is this. Despite all the overthinking, plotting, outlining, researching, editing, deleting, rewriting, and occasional existential crises, there eventually comes a point where you simply have to let the story go.

No book will ever feel perfect. If writers waited until every sentence felt flawless, nothing would ever be published. There will always be one more chapter to polish. One more line of dialogue to tweak. One more adjective that suddenly seems offensive for reasons only your sleep deprived brain understands.

Eventually you have to trust yourself. Trust that readers aren't looking for perfection. They're looking for connection. So yes, I am a professional overthinker. I overanalyze conversations. I invent fictional histories for strangers. I rewrite text messages before sending them. I occasionally wake up convinced I've discovered the greatest plot twist in literary history only to realize it makes absolutely no sense in daylight.

Would my life be easier if I switched my brain off once in a while? Almost certainly. Would I write the same stories if I did? Not a chance. Sometimes overthinking isn't a flaw. Sometimes it's simply imagination refusing to clock out.