Maybe I’ve said this before, but I spend a lot of time thinking about writing. This is a result of several different factors, the largest being that I secretly (or not so secretly) want to be a writer, as in, I derive great joy and fulfillment from writing. That is, when it comes naturally, when I have something to say, when it flows from heart or head or wherever it originates inside of me, down my arm, and out through my fingers, relatively effortlessly. This kind of magical exchage occurs, at best, for about an hour every six months or so. So, no, I don’t believe I can actually call myself a writer, not at that pace. A dabbler in writing, maybe. But that’s a stretch.
During the past several years (since becoming an adult, let’s say), I’ve managed to conquer most of my fears and several of my hang-ups. For instance, I am no longer afraid of having to get somewhere and never getting there, or of being alone forever, and I managed to forgive my parents for their part in screwing me up (please note: I think ALL parents screw up their kids. Some kids aren’t bothered by it. I was. So I had to deal with it.). I actually (not to brag, but to be completely honest) am happier and more fulfilled than I have ever been in my life. I live in New York, I have a job in my field that pays well and I actually like going to, I have a small, close-knit set of devoted, faithful, supportive friends, I’m rarely bored, I have a dependable cadre of boys, I do cultural things, I have a great apartment in the cool part of town, and on and on. You get the point. There are a few things I’m still afraid of, though. Spiders, pidgeons, and rats (but only when in close proximity) are things I deal with pretty often and just generally try to avoid. Also, they aren’t big enough fears that I feel I have to do any deep soul-searching to conquer. I kill spiders when I see them, duck and shriek when pidgeons dive-bomb my head, and jump and shriek when rats come within ten feet of my exposed, flip-flopped feet. What I’m really afraid of, though, is writing. Because I want to do it so badly, and so well, I’m paralyzed at the thought of writing fiction. I manage poetry occasionally, because I don’t consider myself a very good poet and therefore have no fear of writing poorly. Also, no one sees my poetry. Ever.
Writing, though, writing fiction, is another story (excuse the pun). I look at an empty page (or screen), and though I may have an idea in my head, I can’t do it. I’m paralyzed. Or I start, and get stuck. It’s maddening. People who know me well, who have read anything that I’ve written tell me to write, and I want to, I swear to God I want to, but that magic just doesn’t happen when I want to write fiction. But that’s ALL I want to write. So I don’t try because I’m stuck, because I’m afraid to fail, to write poorly, to disappoint my readers (usually that’s just me). And I know I should just write and stop judging myself, but I can’t get past it, this huge block that’s just leering at me. So I read (this is research to see how others write), write in my journal (kind of like writing but not at all), think about writing (isn’t that the first step?), and occasionally (very occasionally) have a story idea that I write down but never act on.
I keep telling myself that I’m incubating, processing, gestating, whatever. The truth is, I’m procrastinating. I’ve been procrastinating for three years. Because I’m scared that I’ll be bad at writing and it’s the only thing I’ve ever really wanted to do. Well, how the hell am I supposed to know unless I do it? and what’s the worst that can happen? If I’m a failure at writing, at least I’ll know and I can move on to something else. And if I turn out to be okay at it, then I’m doing what I love to do. Seems obvious. And honestly, if I can overcome all of my other worst fears and emotional hang-ups, why can’t I overcome this?
A friend of mine from college, Okie in the City, recently moved to New York with his wife. We’ve been talking a lot about writing. He’s got a writer’s group, writes pretty prolifically, and is always on my case about me writing. “Just write,” he says to me. “Put the pen to the f*cking paper. Who cares if it’s shit?” Basically, he tells me to shut up and write.
So, that’s what I’ve decided to do. Shut up and f*cking write.
