“You shouldn’t worry so much,” a friend recently told me. “It’s not going to change anything, so you should just stop.”

“Gosh, why didn’t I think of that?” I said, feeling morose and sarcastic. “That’s what I’ll do! I’ll just toss all my troubles and never worry again!”

Good friend that she is, she kindly ignored my cynicism. “All these health problems you’ve been having-you’ve got to know they’re because you’ve been stressing so much.”

“Well, antacid tablets have been my main source of nutrition lately,” I said.

Although I’ve experienced times of worry before, I never would’ve described myself as fretful or anxious. But when the real estate market went to hell, it left us in purgatory with two house payments, transforming me from laidback to a nail-biting symphony of stress (pounding heart, fiddling digits, drumming fingers, wringing hands). My nervous tics have developed into full blown tac-toes.

“Worrying is like paying interest on trouble before it comes due,” she said. 

“Ironic that you’re trying to console me with a saying that mentions ‘interest’ and coming due,” I said.

“Which you shouldn’t let yourself worry about,” she said. “Just put it out of your thoughts.” 

I resisted the urge to donk my well-meaning friend on the head, but truth is, I’d have given anything if I could do what she suggested. I’d like nothing more than to separate myself from my worries and enjoy all I have without obsessing about what’s around the next bend. 

I get that it’s pointless to worry about things I can do nothing about, but what if there actually is something I could be doing and I just don’t yet know what it is? Where’s the line between worry and planning?  Between conceding and fighting? Between trusting that tomorrow will be a better day, and stocking up on gas station toilet paper, ketchup packets, and Ramen noodles?

In the past, when I needed to clear my thoughts, all it took was some time curled up with a book or working outside, but lately, that hasn’t worked. It wasn’t until a particularly long, sleepless night that I found my key to escape.

I’d been trying to put myself to sleep with a story that started with nothing more than the dreamlike image of a girl dancing on a tree stump by the side of a road. Other people count sheep, but I’m not a big fan of wool so I came up with this. I imagine something odd, then ask myself questions until I fall asleep. Why was the girl dancing? Who was she dancing for? How did she come to be at the side of the road?

Instead of dozing off, though, the story started coming together, pieces falling into place, the storyteller’s voice becoming more and more clear. I got out of bed and went to my computer, then typed like a fiend until the story was out. It was long, rough and wordy, but when it was done, I felt so elated-and more at peace than I’d been for months. 

I went back to bed and slept.  

For all of 45 minutes. Curse that alarm.

Still, the break from worry I found in that story stayed with me over the next several days. Instead of stressing over finances, I distracted myself by trying to find little details to add to my story. Although my own world felt completely out of control, I had total command over the fictional world I’d created.

And of the two others that have followed since then.

It’s often said that everything happens for a reason. Although I wish it hadn’t taken something so extreme to get me writing these stories, I’m also grateful it did.

Want to read the dancing-on-a-stump story? Send Karin an email and she’ll send it to you. She can be reached at karinfuller@cnpapers.com.