Ah.
It’s been too long.
I shouldn’t say I have nothing to write about, since this summer was filled to the brim with activity. But I don’t have anything specific to write about, not really. Sitting in the Inlander office, home of my new semester-long internship, I couldn’t help but think that my writing skills weren’t where I would like them to be. My vocabulary isn’t that big. Sometimes I have to look up words. I read pieces by other people (never mind that they’re professional journalists) and inevitably bring myself down when my own work doesn’t measure up to theirs. All of these things are points of comparison, boxes on a checklist that at this point in my life I don’t feel comfortable checking.
That’s the first feeling. Stuttering confusion when I’m told to write something, followed by despair that whatever I have managed to vomit onto the page is sub-par; by the publications standards, I think, but also by my own.
Second feeling: frustration. I remember, I know! I used to be good at this. This used to be something I enjoyed. No, it was more than that: I loved to write. I loved imagining scenes in my head and watching as they bled out my fingers onto a page. No no no, that’s the wrong word, the wrong phrase. I loved searching for that kind of stuff, reveling in joy that only recollection of something forgotten can bring. That’s the word. That’s what I wanted. Where did that talent go? Where is my drive to write things outside of assignments, things that I want to write. Things like this blog, or a fiction story, or an editorial about something.
Wait, I’ve figured it out. Video games. Mind-numbing, life-sucking video games. If only I didn’t waste all of that time! I could have written leagues of blog posts, oceans and oceans of short stories; I could have been a published novelist! But let’s not stop there: let’s add Netflix to that list. And Reddit. And Facebook and Twitter and Tumblr and Youtube…fuck it, let’s add those hours and hours of pornography, all those useless Vines and funny Imgur links. They’re all to blame. If only it weren’t for the Internet, I would be a great and accomplished writer.
Right.
I can use “if only” to my heart’s content, but it won’t change the fact that I really haven’t put in the time necessary to be a good writer. Sure I started out fast -as a kid I was the king of short stories- but if there’s anything I’ve figured out as I progressed through high school and now three years of college it’s that I’m bad at pacing myself. What if I peaked early? What if the four page thriller “Sam’s Great Adventure,” (with pictures) was as good as I’m going to get? I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like to write, but sometimes I wonder. I wonder because I”m not good at science or math, my brain just doesn’t work that way. So what’s left? Writing. Do I truly enjoy it, or do I write just because I couldn’t think of anything else to do?
Third feeling: despair. Before I can stop myself I’m typing, putting the names of my peers into the search bar. I scan their body of work like a military wife scans a KIA list, with mounting grief and self-loathing. They wrote about this? How is that so good? What do they know that I don’t know? Nothing I write is even half this good. And now I want to throw my computer. I’m not angry at them, of course. How could I be? They’re the ones doing everything right, beefing up their portfolios, talking to cool people. No, I’m mad at myself. What memo did I miss? Why can’t I think up story ideas? Where has my creativity gone? Everything everyone else writes is so much better than what I write.
Maybe it’s because I’m adding to this blog several weeks after I started it, and it’s late and my emotional fuel tank is closer to empty than it is to full, but now I realize that that is not a point at which start. Everyone else is better than I am. I am so unimaginative at this, so unoriginal, I have no ideas, etcetera, etcetera. If I start there, I’m already done for.
So where do I start? What’s my motivation for writing at all? Everything I could ever do has already been done by someone else, and done better. I have nothing to add.
This post was started in the depths of despair; it’s a product of (I’m pretty sure) windy and overcast day, when I was stuck in the office struggling to adapt to an unfamiliar writing style and chose to browse the portfolios of past interns and friends for help. That was my first mistake. Not that you can’t or shouldn’t take examples and tips from accomplished writers; I think it’s a great idea, if you’re head is in the right place. But mine wasn’t, and from time to time still isn’t. All I saw when I stared at those long lists of blog posts and restaurant updates and creative feature stories were lists of things to compare my work to. Lists of things that in my head were superior to anything I had ever written, and so obviously they were going to be better than anything I will ever write. The logic of someone who is tired, hungry and overly self-critical is messy and confusing.
If I were a character in one of my own stories, this would be one of my fatal character flaws: I compare myself to others, and I don’t see the positive. As a Christian, this meant comparing faith walks. That guy over there really has his life together, he looks like he’s really connecting with God. What am I doing wrong? When I got to college, and realized that I was surrounded by literally a thousand people equally or more intelligent and creative than myself, it meant comparing life choices. Wow, she has good study habits. She doesn’t smoke or drink or go out on Friday nights. I bet she has everything together. Where did I go wrong? And now, in the midst of an editing position and an internship, it’s my writing skills that have come into focus underneath my own judgmental microscope.
“At this time during her internship, So and So was writing so many great things, wow. All I’ve done is small updates. Am I not taking enough initiative? Man, I wish I was creative. This sucks. I suck. Why am I doing this?”
And on and on ad infinitum. Reckless perfectionism, idealism and ridiculous comparisons are hard to shake. You are and will always be your worst critic. But today I noticed something, as I sat here and pulled up this blog: my own list of writings has slowly but surely gotten longer and longer. My assignments haven’t changed, or gotten more complex. But all of a sudden I’m finishing them faster, but giving them more thought, and taking more time to make sure they’re just right. And lo and behold, some of them are even being shared on Facebook.
What is this strange new feeling? It feels a little bit like pride, but with a certain indescribable warmth about it, like some little voice from the clouds is speaking to me, whispering in my air, saying “See? See?”
Is it possible that I’m getting better at writing? That’s a hard thing to swallow for someone who has always operated on the principle that he didn’t know what he was doing. Could I, for once, be on the right track? Could I finally be figuring things out?
Probably not. But at least I’ve learned something. One is that comparing yourself to others’, and comparing your work to others’, is the ultimate anti-motivator. You may go looking for inspiration and wind up wallowing in pity. It’s not worth it. What you do comes from you, and that makes it good, and worth your time to do, and worth others’ time to explore. There are always things to be improved, but don’t crush yourself under the weight of someone else’s progress. There is universal standard for this stuff. Maybe they knew just as little as you do, and were just winging it. In fact, I’m willing to bet that at least one point, whoever it is you’re comparing yourself to felt just as worthless and insignificant as you do comparing yourself to them. So don’t do it. Close out that window. Stop putting your life up next to theirs’. It will never compare, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t equally as important.
The second thing I’ve learned is that by not posting a blog right away and procrastinating for several weeks you can learn a lot about yourself. Who would have thought my habit of putting things off would result in a life lesson.
Huh,
It’s been too long.
Field Notes 