On writing
I had to start somewhere, and what better than the one thing I procrastinate the most?
I have been procrastinating at “going back into writing” for so long that I am actually questioning whether I like writing or if I have been lying to myself for the last two decades of my life (the only decades I have on the counter since I learned how to write). I keep pushing the publication deadline into an ideal future where I would have improved to perfection. With no feedback, almost no experience and a very strong sense of self-criticism. Very unlikely. So here it begins.
Recalling the number of times I avoided writing is easier than counting the time I did write. From the most shameful moment of my life when I plagiarised a book and passed parts of it as my own criminal essay in school, to pushing the deadline of writing my thesis to the very last week (of the extended deadline) and at my lowest not even writing the article for a workshop with a prestigious investigative reporter, I have pushed the limits of writing procrastination into another dimension. That being said, I spent 5 years at university to become a journalist, most of my life dreaming about being a writer and putting writing as a hobby for as long as I can remember (never once have I actually written anything without the tremendous amount of pressure of a deadline).
So…
Do I even like writing? At this stage I put so much effort into avoiding the task, I could have finished that novel I’ve been talking about, have a weekly column in a magazine and published all those poems. So why am I constantly postponing sitting down in front of my laptop? I am dreading the moment I won’t have any more valid excuses to delay the crucial moment. Maybe I just don’t like writing, the simplest answer to the most HORRIFIC question I asked myself. The discomfort of confronting myself and wondering if I have been living a lie and romanticised the idea of being a writer when in reality, I can’t put any effort whatsoever into finishing one, ONE article. Yet I can’t deny the enjoyment I feel typing those words and digging my brain for more sentences and ideas. It must be something else.
Analysing my procrastination process and researching the roots of the problem in books and articles, it turns out procrastinating can be a coping mechanism for plenty of things and not just a question of laziness. I knew it. My deep seeded emotions and fear are in the way of getting my words to the world. All things considered, I use distractions when I think I am not capable of something or the task crushes me in anxiety, who would not?
Fear of failure. Writing makes everything real, my ambition, dreams, life goal and everything I kind of work towards. Every time I think about sitting down in front of a blank page, all I can think about is what if I am shit at it? So, I don’t write because you can’t be bad at something you don’t do and you cannot fail if you never tried. Protecting this imaginary vision of myself as a somehow successful writer at all costs comes in the way of any possible attempt at starting. As a student I thought writing was my thing, the one thing I was the best at. Fatally when it came to comparing myself with others’ writing skills I couldn’t shatter the illusion, therefore provided no comparing material. Illusion remained intact. Laughing it off later at the bar, saying I did not have the time, my contact let me down, or any semi-real excuse I had. What a shame.
That massive perfectionist ego of mine will have to go if I want to enjoy writing. Such a lame end, good riddance.
Post scriptum: I only do drafts and never re-read myself as I cringe in a pit of deletion and my texts end up being three lines and a weird title. HOWEVER, I quickly read this particular bit of writing and realised the end is abrupt and in the middle of a thought. To soothe the fall, here’s a free poem on writing:
Keep it short
Authors write books about one topic. I can barely write a paragraph.
My brain runs too fast. Jumping from idea to idea.
I wrote this title going somewhere but I forgot. I am already in another place.