Settled into the Seattle-reminiscent, ubiquitous entity that is Starbucks, my laptop alight and my coffee on its way, I prepare to gain focus as the drone of my surroundings fades into my subconscience. Here is where it becomes easier to sip on the syrupy sweetness of my Frappuccino rather than put forth the effort to put word to screen. What was it I was going to write? Give it a minute. Take another sip. This continues until the sugar high takes over and my head becomes too heavy to keep upright. I’ll need to hurry to catch the taxi coming around the corner. This way, I can lay my head on my pillow at home while I type. I can, that is, until sleep wins over and another day is wasted. Such is perfectionism at work.
Writing seems so simple to those who don’t do it. Ernest Hemingway had it right when he allegedly claimed that, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” There is some debate as to whether he really said this, but I think he must have at least thought it regularly. There is a reason people drink and I’m inclined to believe that artists might be have more of the inclination than others. Maybe Hemingway had his booze and I have my overpriced coffee and bad WiFi. Bleeding is painful. Yet, that giving of our lives is what makes everything worthwhile.
The thing is, had it not been something I cared about so deeply, I wouldn’t have had a problem with it. If it had been a college paper, I could have knocked it out rather quickly. Had it been an essay or tutorial explaining a concept or proving a stance, my fingers would have blurred under the speed of my typing…almost. So why is it so hard to bleed on paper as Hemingway purported? Unfortunately, I know the answer.
Why is it unfortunate, you may ask? Well, it’s because there’s no easy solution. The truth is the words aren’t really escaping because of a lack of skill. They are escaping because they are afraid. I’m afraid. I am afraid of my words being seen as the penultimate example of the totality of my skill. I am afraid of their not being enough. After all, once they go out there’s no reeling them back in.
It’s not as if I don’t know my own talent. Sometimes it’s a matter of others’ perceptions that I can’t stand. Writers and other artists are often like this. Our emotions are right on the surface and they ricochet internally, echoing off of the walls sometimes for decades. When the critical words of others are the base of those emotions, they create a painful battle ahead.
So, what is there to do? Well, I can give you an answer but you may not like it. It may seem too simple and yet unobtainable, worsening any feelings of hopelessness and defeat. I promise you, though: you can do it. It may not be today. It may not be next week. But, with God’s help, you can figure it out. Simply put, you need to accept yourself as a writer regardless of what others say. Forget others. People are careless in thought and word. They will never give you permission to be what you are, nor do they have the power to do so. You have to decide. When you do that, you have to make your gift just something you do, not who you are. It feels like who you are; I get that. You could even say I still believe that. So, what do I mean? I mean quit making your identity of your life about your writing. Quit idolizing it. It’s something you do, along with other things. You also take care of the kids. You also cook and clean. You also go to church, sing in the choir, and teach Sunday school. Or whatever. Quit hanging your self-worth on this. You are first and foremost a child of God who happens to also write. Then the words will come and it will be fun again. It will be thrilling again. Just don’t let that bliss lock you up again.
To read more about the struggles of the artist’s life, read my upcoming book Confessions of a Rabid Melancholy.
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