Anxiety Behind Starting and Writing · 1:38am Oct 14th, 2019

Interm Memo

Forgive me, gang. I don't know what happened below. Sometimes you write with something in mind, but as the words take you through the sprawling empty pages, you find the intent and the result not quite matching up. This blog is more of an examination of myself rather than a topic. One of my general beliefs has been this.

We are all the same underneath the skin, in regards to most things, that a topic or a problem is what unites us—something universally true for most—rather than what one complains of. My symptoms are your symptoms until I tell everyone where I got mine from. It's the reason why I never talk about the exact problem and process that winded me up into writing a particular blog.

But I failed that goal today. What you are to read below is more so based not on a thematic truth for most, but rather, a series of blathering for the one. I try not to write blogs like these for the symptoms rather than the person tends to be of interest. Hence, for the few that find me interesting to the full extent of an iota, then read ahead.

For the rest? You may want to read something or someone better.

I've never quite gotten the anxiety behind writing, not that I am speaking about anyone else on the matter, but rather, there has always been that fear, thickening dread about striking words onto the page. It's silly—the whole idea of being anxious about writing—but one that plagues me nonetheless.

Let's examine my diet.

When I wake up is usually the time I start to write, for I have a central belief, maybe one true or untrue, works or not working that goes something like this.

The quicker you can hit the page is better, not even to actually begin writing—but rather to be done with the anxiety. The reason why writers write for such long periods is that they know it's far easier to continue than it ever is to start.

No matter the story, the hours spent writing, the difficulty of a beat or the maintenance of proper prose flow—each problem requiring mental strain and draining willpower—the actual work of the art is far easier than starting the work.

I must confess that I don't struggle when I write. Don't take this the wrong way, thinking of it as either a boast or a lie. Rest assured, I do struggle. Days when the words don't sing right, and the story has forgotten to tell itself.

But despite most of my fear and anxiety when it comes to writing... more often than not, once I begin the job, the writing goes quickly and well, problems stressed resolve themselves thanks to my subconscious wit and, if I ever do face a project that's a challenge—I simply change projects.

The actual writing, the entering of flow state, is something that takes care of itself and, even though so much can go wrong—overall, very things do. The writing keeps at a certain quality. The prose flows about the same. My thoughts and feelings ramble as usual. There always seems to be something to write about.

If I'm honest about this gang, I think the first thing you should do when you wake up is write—not to begin right away but to have the hump of that day conquered already. The first time is always the hardest. But once I have broken into the page—that writing wasn't some magical act that only worked once—I find subsequent return far easier.

I don't think I actively fear writing. Of course, the only reason why someone would fear beginning a project is that they will not do it well. You can only break into that story once—if you're someone prone to not doing re-writes—so you damn well do it well.

Chances of failure are low. It feels so conceited to say. But it's true. Some projects are not meant to be followed through, so they get scrapped. But most of the time, the intro nails the entry well. I'm in. It's non-stop flow from here.

If I had to take another guess at why I sometimes struggle to write, another theory is another belief of mine, one pretentious and perhaps cynical, but I think it to be true—if not for anyone else, then at least myself.

You tend to mystify writing when you're not writing.

And... look. This is going to make me sound like an absolute cunt. But I can't help but feel in my hearts of hearts for it to be true. When I talk to others about writing, those who speak highly of the process, the magic interwoven in storytelling, the legacy we pass down with our words... I can't help but think of most people as a crook of shit.

It's not like I'm out trying to call people crooks of shit. It's just. I don't see these people often writing or if at all. None ever seem to complain about the long hours, the constant self-doubt, the clouding of the mind with a mental fog from drafting and outlining and revising.

It's not that I don't think of those things as false or fake, but rather, that the person who speaks of them doesn't have a genuine connection to them. All that has been stated has to be earned through work. You can only feel the elation—the magical feeling when the writing goes well—by suffering and suffering and suffering.

And I trust little in people who leave out the parts about the suffering.

But I think the same thing happens to me. When I've gone a day or two without filling out an empty page, I tend to ennoble the process. That there are a magic and intelligence and wit behind it. A calling to something more, a revelation of things beneath, something or other, bullshit highway.

Writing is whatever it is to you, so long, as it works. Is it shameful to say I don't believe much in the words of writers who can't write? Something about your belief and your mindset causes you to be unable to write, and now, you wish to preach such a thing onto me, either believing I will produce better results than you or become just as miserable.

I know this blog is a rambling one. But sometimes they have to be this way. It's not so much a proving of a point, but rather, a process drifting inward, crashing into the sides of things while on its trek deeper, everything a vain hope that all found before will soon be useful.

But what I guess I'm trying to say is this. When you spend too much time away from the page, you tend to dream up what writing could be rather than is. That sometimes it's work. A blind faith upon an empty page that your fingers and your mind will take you to where you need to go.

Bad writing is better than no writing. Without the former, we have no chance of reaching good writing. Any fear of writing is the fear that some of this composition has proved. That you won't nail your mark.

But as I often said before.

It's better to take the hit than to never enter the ring.

Strange blog like usual. Rather crap if you asked me. Maybe something resonated with you.

I don't know why I fear sometimes writing, for I don't mind writing poorly but with a preference to write well. I don't mind taking the hit, yet typing those first few words can take a matter of minutes to hours. Writing is both easy and hard. Oh well.

I greened at a party yesterday. When I got drunk is when I would smoke weed and, when I got high enough, I would begin drinking again. This process found me on the floor, with people walking over me. I'd gone inside myself, reliving my childhood again. That it wasn't some dream. A mere memory. No. It was a reality once lived in, something I can't ever return to, a series of events none around me ever seem to remember or care much about.

Another thing happened at the party. I died. My body warmed, and my heart quickened, and my mind thickened with strange building elation that all coalesced into the end. This happened while the finale was playing for the rest of the world.

After reliving my childhood, and feeling my present self about to finish off, I had sent a text to a friend, one real quick, sending the words help. My phone, of course, converted the words to an SoS emoji which my friend then ignored.

And then I gasped. Reached out a hand and broke out of my mental cacoon. I rose and inhaled sharply, surprising one for a moment—before they returned to their phone. Quickly, hyperventilating in place, I got up, went to the bathroom and threw up for the first time in years.

I passed out in the bathroom. Woke up sometime later needing water. Couldn't move. The slightest movement would make me puke. I text the same friend for water. They came but, somehow, couldn't understand my words. They left. I threw up again. Once more, in needing help, the world around me couldn't care less.

Not out of ill-intent. Just... apathy.

I can't tell you when this strange isolation was cast over me. It feels recent, and yet, it's been there my whole life. The feeling of only being on the surface with everyone. That nothing ever goes deeply between me or others.

I don't blame anyone for it. Honestly, it feels more like a curse than anything else. I thought becoming smarter, quicker with the wit, funny and decent at telling stories—that improving my character would change my fate within the world.

But I don't think it's like that. Or works like that. Nothing like that at all. To be honest with you, I guess I'm condemned within myself, to myself. Too many lost friends and a lack of caring. Strangely enough, it doesn't affect me anymore. I can sense the feelings, but I just observe them from afar.

Curious more than anything else.

Anyway. It's getting late. I need to go do a big writing session to catch up with clients since I'm finally done with work. Also going to try becoming an artist for real this time around. The future is barren of promises. F'naaaaa

~ Yr. Pal, B

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