This morning, I woke up amazingly energized (see previous post), and those who know me realize that eventually, this translates into yet another excuse to write something. So, happily humming along to some awesome writing tunes, I began reading over some previously written words, trying to figure out the direction I wanted my writing to take for the day.
Enter a serious case of the blah! The more I read, the more I inwardly laughed at myself, wondering how in the world I ever considered undertaking writing as a career. In my mind, I suck! Trivial words poorly put together usually gain very little sympathy from me. Even when they happen to be my own. The more I read, the more disgusted I become, until eventually, I reach this point:
I want to break every pencil I've ever owned. I want to take all the notebooks, hazardously sprawled across my bedroom floor, and chuck every single one of them into the bottom of some abyss. I want to hide from my mediocrity, because I know that it just won't cut it. Suddenly, I want to go back to bed.
Of course, at this point I was panicking in that excessive, and often overly dramatic, way that writers panic. My mind began swirling with thoughts of the dreaded dream crusher: maybe I should give up on writing. Throw the pen down before I hurt myself. (And of course, burn all those dreadful old notebooks, to avoid leaving embarrassing evidence). * Insert scream here!!*
Soon, I become this guy, above, staring hopelessly down at the page, as a collection of balled up sheets gather around me. Or blinking helplessly up at the cursor, that sickening stretch of white that is a blank Word document mocking me, in its completeness. The wine doesn't help. The cigarettes don't help. Calling up other writers to complain that I can't write most definitely doesn't help. And for a moment, I consider quiting. (Wonder how much South Pacific deep-sea divers get paid these days?)
But I don't quit. Because I am aware of something. My mind now wanders to an awesome blog post that I recently read that expresses a similar opinion to what I've come to understand. Like Jane Friedman, former publisher and current contributing editor of Writer's Digest, I feel that a successful writer is one who overcomes this feeling that their writing is crap. I also believe that ALL writers, and especially the good ones, hate their own writing, at some point or another. This is the first step.
Why? How can it be good to hate your own work? It's simple, really. If we didn't, how would we ever become better? Athletes don't train harder because they feel they are the best they will ever be. I'm glad I want to burn my old notebooks. In essence, it motivates the opposite. I go through them. I rewrite. I look for those few shining words nestled within a page full of drab. And I take them, bury them in my chest, and use them to remind me that this is what I was born to do.
It's funny how writing mimics life. We take what is there within us, mold it into that which best reflects our sentiments, and then boldly share it with the rest of the world. And quite often, in our sharing, we want to snatch it back, because we feel it is sub par. But this is what motivates us to live better lives. We become better people, doing bigger and better things. Like life, writing evolves.
So I wait a while, before returning to the page. I reread my good words and search for better ones. Slowly, I see the tiny bits of genius roll out. And I smile, knowing that eventually my writing will grow to the heights that it is being primed to reach. Until then, I take the tragic lines in stride. And keep a lot of notebooks hidden in the back of my closet.
Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet
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