Brick Walls Made of Writer's Block Pt. 2
"I'm obsessed with completing and publishing my novel so I can get out of the shit-hole I'm in and start living my life."
It's something so simple and reading it in front of me now I feel ridiculous but here it is. All for the world to see. This is what killed my writing. It's so weird because anyone who is a writer will tell you that this is what chasing perfection does; anyone who aspiring to be one can tell you they've heard this piece of advice tossed around before. And I know. I've watched and read them.
Writers have told me chasing perfection kills creativity but it was a psychiatrist which told me why I was doing it. For the longest time, one of the things I kept doing was putting my life on hold believing that, because I haven't written a book yet, I'm no one. It started from when I was young, you see. I won't go into details because I respect the duty I have as a son to their family but point is this: I've never a had a life of my own. Even until today at 28, I'm carving something out for myself from the space of a tiny sandbox my parents put me in. And every bit of freedom, whether bad or good, has made me loathe the sandbox since.
I won't field the obvious questions of: "Why don't you just move out then?" or "Why don't you just live for yourself?" Questions I've grown tired of explaining. I've made my peace with my situation and that from this sandbox, the only right thing to do is to do what's right by me. That brings us back to the topic at hand. Writing.
At some point in my life, I had two years to myself when I had no job and was left to give this novel my all. Suffice to say, I screwed that up. I didn't take it for granted. On the contrary, I took it too seriously. Writing, outlining, countless revising. It was word after word and a revision after revision. Write 10 words, delete it and write it a different way. My focus on that different way was on what the reader would like to read. Now, tying this to a protective ego I built by overthinking how I wanted to present myself to the world and how I wanted the world to react?
Everything got blown off the table.
I can't speak on behalf of other media but writing is now special to me in the sense that, if you're mindful enough, it's a mirror that reflects your soul. I was censoring myself out there the same way I was censoring myself on the manuscript. By never speaking up, I would never have to be held accountable for whatever I said. It was safe, I liked it. However, running parallel lines to this were my fantasies of living a life as an established author. Speaking in interviews, orating graduation ceremonies, getting quoted in magazines, being heard.
Trust me, the paradox kills me as much it kills you.
Life is confusing that way. I can tell you how confusing it is that, even in those dark times, I had some days when I could write a chapter without a care; when I overcame my obsession of finishing my manuscript to enjoy writing a fan-fiction of Overwatch or Dark Souls without feeling guilty. Compounded by the handful of kudos I received, these were the minute victories that led me to believe that I was still on a winning strategy. A winning strategy which kept breaking me down because I was never on the mountain I saw myself standing on. And that was it.
It was never about the writing but it was about me. If you've read this far and came to the same conclusion before this point, then I'm happy that you're at this point. It took me six years to be here and I'm none the more glad that I am.
Digression aside, yes, it was about me. My life. My ego. My lack of mindfulness to notice what I was doing to run away from the feelings of being trapped, judged, not being heard, ridiculed. All of it neatly packed into, "Well, I'll show them once my book makes New York Times Bestseller." I was and am vindictive like that. These were grievances I never took stock off and instead hurled into the fantasy of being successful. All until it came tumbling down one day when I watched that video of a psychiatrist having a conversation with Sky Williams.
Success is the byproduct of action. It's not the result of it. You can plant a seed in the ground and water it everyday, it doesn't mean that it'll grow.Full disclosure, I cried a day later after I watched that video. It felt like a burden had lifted off my back. It's true. I didn't have to beat myself up and bend myself out of shape coiling over what's the perfect story. All I can really do is write the stories I can write, love the stories regardless of whether it gets me anywhere. This was four months ago and life ever since has been a mindful journey back into writing just for writing's sake. It's tough some days. The same old wounds pop open and I see nothing else but the same sandbox, feeling the same feelings of a younger me that never got the love he needed. The only difference then and now is that I can sit down with those feelings, notice it, and let it ride out like a wave.
In writing this, I can tell you that the same feelings of reservations I felt then are still in me now. By putting this out there, I'm opening myself to be held accountable for what I say whether it's praise, being cancelled, or more realistically a viewer count that's reflective of me just checking in to proofread this post. All of that is fine by me and that's okay.
Neil Gaiman once said something along the lines of, "... Normally, what you wanna tell people is write because most people who want to be writers it never occurs to them that the only you way you actually do it is by writing... "
That's all I can do; that's all I want to do.
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