Introspection: “Idealism sits in prison”

I’m a writer, I write.

I was not expecting the amount of support I received in response to my newsletter last week. A large part of why I stopped writing as often as I used to in recent years was because I felt like I had no audience. I will be eternally grateful for having been given a platform as opposed to screaming (which is what I do with my writing) into the abyss. I’m still reeling from the shock. Again, thank you. 

Last week, a friend of mine told me that I had to continue putting out excellent content like the first newsletter hence the problem I am faced with. A double-ended compliment because this week I pressured myself to death. You see, you’re only a writer if you actually write, right? Well, before that newsletter (and a short story a week or so before) I had not written anything “just because” in about six months, I kid you not. But that’s how it goes.

I used to be able to write whenever I felt like it. I’d have a word stuck in my head for weeks on end and one day I’d just sit and build something around said word and I’d like it, at least at first. But now I realize it was only so easy because well, it wasn’t great work. So, today, after two incomplete drafts of proposed updates for my newsletter (hated them even before completion), I asked the same friend to tell me things to write about, maybe that’d help. I conveniently forgot how I find it nearly impossible to write (creatively not technically) when given a prompt. I like to decide what to write about (which is the entire point of this newsletter) but at the time it was nearly 4pm on Thursday and a post that was intended for Friday did not exist. Being the sort of person he is, he suggested politics, and music and so and so. They weren’t awful suggestions but I hated them nonetheless. I went back and wrote something else, draft number three, hated it too.

10pm on Thursday, still nothing. And then I consulted my “oga” and he told me to write about my inability to write. I thought it was ridiculous but here I am, three paragraphs in, doing just that. Now that I’ve declared that I’m a writer, my foremost problem is actually writing. I’d like to lie and tell you it’s easy, effortless, a piece of cake, and that when I close my eyes I see elaborate plots and characters. Well, I do. But the actual writing, depicting these characters and their intricate plots in all their glory is not easy.

I’m new to the whole consistency thing but I have decided that I will put out new work every Friday and so, I must. I’d die before I put out work I consider to be mediocre though. I’m overly critical of my work and given enough time, I grow to hate it. Might as well be in love with it at its inception. 

In theory, I know it’s silly to strive for perfection. Perfection does not exist. But in actuality I find myself rejecting what is possibly my best in pursuit of better. It’s never enough. It’s reflective in nearly every aspect of my life, especially my writing. And so, for me and for you as well I will continue to beat myself up until I deem my work satisfactory. 

Occasionally (and these occasions are fewer and farther between these days) I have epiphanic moments where I produce my best work in mere minutes. The images in my head are clear as day and everything from thought to words just makes perfect sense. However, if I’m to rely solely on the possibility of these instances of inspiration ignoring their rarity, I might as well not write at all. 

“Let the days be dark, let me hate my work, ‘cause you cut through all the noise.” 

This newsletter and you, my audience are my anchor. I will be consistent and my work will be good. Because what else is there to do if not write? And of what use is writing if it’s lacklustre?