writing is really freakin’ hard, y’all
..so it’s been a pretttttttty long week, huh? In the words of the icon herself, Taylor Swift, “It’s me. Hi; I’m the problem. It’s me.” And, even though I began Wandering Weekly Wonders with the best intentions and the highest enthusiasm, overwhelm seems to have gotten me in the end.
Writing/life/the principle of discipline itself: 2, Hannah: .5, maybe, depending on the day and the alignment of the cosmos, probably.
The thing is, my mind is spinning with ideas and thoughts and (mostly) questions all day long. Things that I generally understand better and more fully when I’m strict with myself and I attempt to empty my brain and organize its content on some sort of paper. The other thing is, though, most of the time I absolutely dread the thought of sitting down and looking inward long enough to actually have to deal with the tangled mess.
But Hannah, you’re a writer! Which like, yes, but, also, am I? “Writers write” and while once upon a not so long ago I was doing that frequently (thx to academic-induced accountability), over the last year or so, I really haven’t been. Not for myself anyway. And I don’t really know how to feel about that. I think mostly I feel sad, but that also doesn’t feel entirely right either because if I was truly sad that I wasn’t writing and practicing my craft–what I’ve come to believe is my purpose–wouldn’t I just.. I don’t know, f%^#*&g do it??
The answer (if we can even call it that), does not feel so simple or straightforward.
When I was in grad school, I read a lot of excerpts, essays, and books that shared a common thread: their authors expressed a deep disgust, a painful hatred of the act of writing. I felt struck by these words, this concept; why would you do something that you dread? Surely it can’t be all that bad..? At the time, I was so entranced by the literary world and the mere notion that I could get paid for linguistic creativity–the term “artist” was always a label I’d been drawn to, but had since remained just out of reach–that I merely shrugged it off and powered through the creative droughts and felt sorry for these lonely, miserable souls. At the time, I was employed (albeit intensely unhappy) and exploring the guided and graded limits to my own talent. At the time, I’d shaken off these writers’ thoughts and words and told myself not me. I love to write; I’ll never experience this internal, unsettled disconnect.
excavating dangerous caverns of doom
Now, I understand. Writing is strange. It’s one of those things that while yes, it absolutely can be taught, there are also those gifted (and/or cursed) with language and cadence and an awareness of the world that goes unnoticed by so many. 1 Writing is also, like lo so many art forms, subject to complete and utter mind blankness; the blinking black cursor becomes a sort of hypnotizing metronome threatening to wipe the mind of articulate thought. And again, I would love to discuss this with a fiction writer to see if their experience is similar (see note above), but the thing about writing and embellishing the minutia and goings on in your (my) own real life is a double-edged sword.
On one end, I’m never really out of ideas or material–I have a thousand million ideas frantically flying around and colliding pretty much all the damn time. Also, I’m incessantly curious and quite observant so I’m constantly seeing and hearing and learning about things that I’m intrigued by or that spark a subsequent thought or idea for one piece or another. On the other end, though, is the fact that using myself and my mind and my own lived experiences as the main source requires me to get my hands a little dirty. I become a miner: sifting and searching and digging for gold. Sure, mining can supply the rarest and most precious jewels–the ones that sparkle by day and nearly glow by night. But, it’s also terribly, frighteningly dangerous; the makeshift tunnel carved into and underneath the surface can collapse, or there might be toxic fumes and other substances, or perhaps an explosion can erupt and wipe out everything in the surrounding area.
when talent feels like torture
It’s a never-ending, internal conundrum: either I force myself to deal with and think through and process everything that’s going on inside (and out) of my head therefore facing that which will very likely be equal parts overwhelming, painful, and unimaginably difficult not only to understand but to also then articulate for myself and others….or, I don’t do anything at all. Usually, ashamedly, I choose the latter. At least until I feel like I’m carrying around a heavy rock in my stomach and my thoughts feel particularly crowded and I’m left with no other choice but to bite all the skin off my fingers and try to put everything into legible English.
It’s cruel, really. The paradox that exists between that which you know is good for you and the feeling of absolute and draining dread you have to move through to get there. Add in a little creative block and it’s no wonder I’m averaging roughly one post a month. And like, I know there is and will always be something–that’s the nature of life–but I’m just finding the whole unemployment and job search-thing to be quite debilitating. All that to say, I’m trying to be kind and loving with myself as I keep on keeping on, but I also find that that which has the power to make me feel even marginally better becomes that much more overwhelming under pressure and stress (oh, the irony) and thus is the first to go. I’m kinda operating on low power mode, I think, but every day I am trying to give my best and most solid effort.
I’m trying also to muster up the courage of the miner and closely examine the darkest and scariest tunnels of my thoughts, but lately I’ve been feeling a bit more like the canary–my song snuffed out before even reaching the heart of the cave.
Basically? I now understand writers like Annie Dillard, Mary Karr, and countless other successful and talented wordsmiths’ plight: writing is, indeed, its own kind of hell. To feel buzzy and inspired and filled to the brim with countless inklings of thoughts just millimeters out of your consciousness is already distractingly loud and overwhelming. To then have to sit down, organize, parse through, understand, and make it all sound like, good? Sensical? Compelling? Downright misery. And the worst part is, I still can’t imagine anything else–anything better–than a life that includes my fingers to keys, tapping on symbols, and making sense of all that surrounds me.
What a strange predicament–to find yourself drawn to that which subjects you to criticism and rejection and yet simultaneously makes you feel the most alive. Tortured artist indeed.
- Also, I think it is important to note that my “expertise” is in creative nonfiction (as are the authors of the specific pieces I read throughout my program, not the link I’ve included above) and in no way are exhaustive or holistically explicative of all authors and writers. Like, I live in absolute awe of fiction writers–their ability to not only create a whole world of life-like characters and dialogue and overall plot and make it sound not only believable, but also interesting to read BLOWS my mind. That shit is hard.
