☁️ Doing the thing I can't do
delete if you don't want a long read!
Hi friend,
Bit of a different format today.
I’m testing out some new ways of doing this thing. It’s okay if you don’t like it. This one’s mostly for me.
If you hate it, feel free to delete + the usual format will be back on Thursday. 🤍
with warmth + love,
N
I can’t write an essay.
So, instead, I read them. I admire the writing of others who, somehow, did this thing I seem hell-bent on doing. I imagine it comes so easily to them, obviously, and something must be wrong with me.
Instead, I judgmentally mull through drafts of old, unfinished ones. I start new drafts, thinking: this is it. This is the draft that will finally get published into the world. I close the tab and will see this unfinished one collecting dust in a few weeks. I will shake my head and roll my eyes, wondering how I could’ve ever thought it would be my profound debut essay.
The influx of writer memes to my Instagram Explore page tells me I’m doing something write – sorry, right. Being doubtful and sitting on a million and one incomplete drafts is part of being a writer, they’ll say. I scroll through and obsessively like every meme, Reel, and aesthetic graphic as if that will further make me a writer. When I feel really compelled and inspired, I share it on my Instagram Story. I write something like, “so true!” or simply the 🥲 emoji alongside it to convey to everyone who follows me, “see!! I’m a writer!!!!” (Can the unfinished drafts on my laptop see this story? I think of them briefly, then continue to doomscroll.)
I get the writing bug in spurts. An urgent need to throw words out of my head onto paper – or, in this case, a Substack draft. I read something really inspiring and think for a moment, “I can do that, too!” Sometimes, the words just get stuck in my head like a clogged-up pipe. The only fix is to flush water through it and chisel away, feeling the relief of flowing water once it’s working again.
Other times, I force myself to write. I put it on my to-do list alongside my client work (which is how I make money) and housework (which is how I continue to live a functioning adult life). Here’s something about me: I hate mandated writing. I know every piece of advice on writing says you have to just do it. But writing, much to Nike’s chagrin, isn’t the same as an athletic activity. I know I’m supposed to try writing morning pages. I’m supposed to follow thoughtful prompts. I’m supposed to try writing by hand instead of with a laptop. I know all of the advice that’s ever been given. And I hate it.
It reminds me of being a kid learning how to play an instrument. Who amongst us hasn’t been an eager middle schooler excited to play an instrument, then hating every minute of practicing and lessons? Be honest. I’m a deeply musical human, and I even dreaded it. Even worse: self-practicing, aka practicing completely alone of my own volition.
You see, much like practicing the french horn all on my own in middle school, I hate forcing myself to write. The two experiences actually feel pretty similar to my anxiety-ridden brain. I’m the worst judge of myself. I’m either deeply lazy or unreasonably critical – there is no in-between. So, I tend to avoid it. I don’t keep the unfinished essays going because I know I’m only subjecting myself to my harsh inner critic.
I’m told this is part of the experience of being a writer. I suddenly feel very artistic – hit by the urge to tell people I enjoy black espresso and only drink unflavored sparkling water. (This is when I know I’ve for sure lost it.)
If I really think about it, I decide I care far too much about what people think. This isn’t anything profound – I’ve been in therapy for half my life to undo my incessant need to please people. But then the internet came along and gave me a platform to publish my pieces to the world, just for the small price of satisfying the algorithm.
As an aside, I think it’s a little disingenuous when people judge others for caring about metrics. We’re publishing creative work to a platform that will or won’t show your work depending on how much it feeds more engagement, and you’re sitting here wondering why people care about how a piece performs?? These platforms are designed to be addictive, designed to keep you on them for as long as possible. Anyone who’s published anything on the internet knows how addictive getting engagement is.
The challenge of this is in letting the algorithm and audiences dictate what I write. I’ve told myself I’ll publish this piece, but then I think about my audience. Do people really want to read this long essay on why I hate my own writing? Is anyone even going to read this? Man, you’re just going on and on and on about nothing. There’s you wasting valuable work time again.
I can’t tell you that I won’t care if no one reads this, because that would be a lie. I actually care a lot, even more than I might say. If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t be publishing this. I’d keep it in a journal or a folder somewhere on my computer where no one would ever see it. And yet, for some reason, I don’t. I think there’s importance in this. In publishing work that I haven’t over-thought. Work that my inner critic hasn’t torn apart yet. I think you must be so bored with me writing things like this over and over. Maybe this is my content niche: a broken record of creative anxiety. Damn, that would’ve done well as a Tumblr post in 2012.
I’m told that all of this makes me a writer, so maybe I am one. But that title still feels incorrect. Still feels unearned. So, I read more essays from real writers and start drafts of new ones I’ll never finish. Maybe someday I’ll be a real writer.
Thanks for reading this issue, friend! As always, feel free to share your thoughts in the comments below or by hitting the ‘reply’ button. 🤍
this was so real, thanks for sharing, i feel seen.
You are doing it. Keep going.