Do all writers have a complicated relationship with writing?
I don’t even know how to begin to explain mine.
I feel like all of my writing comes out of a journalling practice and all of my journalling out of a thinking practice but also that the journalling is the thinking. The act of writing can help me sift through my brain space and figure out what is going on in there.
I know this and yet I still have long periods where I either don’t, won’t or can’t write. Is this a time when I don’t, won’t or can’t think? I’m not sure.
I am also intensely aware of this creative drive, this wish to make something concrete and tangible out of the ether, to pluck it from the air and drive it into the ground. But the more I make that my singular focus in life the less I am able to do it.
Recently I had a series of experiences that led me to think that perhaps if I focused instead on something else, in terms of making money, a living and a career that I would be better off. That I would suffer less. And in a way I think that is true. I’ve always said I can’t make art my life because I wouldn’t have anything to make art about.
A renewed personal focus on community relationships, sporting commitments, friendships, enjoyment and taking up work in an enjoyable service-oriented, giving back capacity have helped me feel more fulfilled than ever and initially it sparked an intense period of creativity as I felt the pressure to make something of my writing or my art was lifted. I was making something of myself in other areas. My art and writing could be just for me.
Every now and again I wish those other things could totally fulfil me so that I didn’t have to make art at all. I wish that a life lived presently, for enjoyment, for others around me was enough and that I didn’t also have to take time out to create some kind of artistic documentation of it. Isn’t the life well lived enough? Why is the recording of it so important? What do I hope will happen to the recording?
And yet, I am drawn to write. After months of not writing much it begins to weigh on me. Even if I feel like I have nothing to say, even if I feel my life has been lived well in other areas. There is a nagging sense of lack. Why is writing such an essential part of my life yet also something I sometimes wish I didn’t have to do? If I don’t want to do it why do I feel better when I do? If I don’t want to do it, why do I feel that I need it?
I’m probably overthinking it, in the sense that anything that is enjoyable and useful to us is sometimes unappealing. I guess my relationship with writing feels more opaque to me as it is like the relationship to my own mind. In its most challenging moments the mind works hard to conceal what bothers it from itself. We don’t even realise how deeply we have been avoiding thinking about something until we start.
Perhaps also I commit the tragic mistake of reading other’s work and mistaking the effortless seeming product for an effortless writing process.
I once heard someone say (I forgot who, sorry) that the mark of a "high level" writer is that they suffer through writing and hate the process on most days. I don't consider myself "high level," but I do tend to squirm and suffer through it, and also drop the ball a lot. Editing what I wrote tends to be more enjoyable, more of a concrete problem to solve. Getting the initial thoughts down is messy and like your brain giving birth or something.