It’s a question Chuck Wendig recently asked of his readers, a challenge of sorts. It’s a good one, and the timing for me was appropriate. Mostly because I haven’t written anything in a while (at least not beyond illegible scribbles in my notebook) and it made me think about this. In my case, the question needed some revising before I could actually answer.
Why haven’t I written anything in a while? And what was it that drove me to words in the first place all those years ago? What compels me to write?
I’ll tackle these one at a time.
Why haven’t I written in a while?
The short answer to this is fear. My own fear. Lots of it. I’ve read much about writing, writers block, the creative process, etc. Fear always pokes its head out of the ground somewhere. (I’ve written about fear and letting go before, and actually Sir Wendig wrote about this recently.)
Fear, for me, almost always leads to procrastination. When I get in the zone of anxiety, I can barely get anything done. And the paradox here is that I know writing is probably one of the best remedies for this, but I don’t do it. Questions arise. Questions like:
Why bother? No one will read this anyway.
People I know will disconnect and think oddly of what I’m doing.
Writing is a selfish act and I should not pursue it.
These are just a few examples, there are plenty of others. I don’t necessarily look at fear as an enemy the way I used to, but rather a bit of a tool that can help open one’s eyes to what’s really going on. And, almost always, I realize that these anxieties are all illusions.
And so here I am! Back at the blog after several months of dormant silence. But the other reason I haven’t written much is I’ve just been flat-out filled busy with life-ish things. Work, family, caring for a couple of animals, and other staple events that may represent the human condition that I won’t bother to get into right now. You know, life.
And that is not an excuse for not writing. It’s actually a cause for more writing. I’m the one who has not made the time for something I love. And that’s on me.
What drove me to write in the first place?
Well now, this is a loaded question. The answer could very well fill its own blog post or some other medium. There’s no one single answer to this.
At the risk of sounding self-serving, I have always felt this vibrational energy within that has compelled me to do something. For a long time I felt a strong connection to music (and still do, though it’s not my primary driver as it once was). But I spent more time being intrigued by holding a bass than I did actually practicing and really loving the hard lessons and sweat that so many pour into their passions. My reasoning was the typical anxiety-driven adolescence that convinced me to belong to some scene rather than create something new. This mentality, thankfully, flipped inside out over the course of several years.
Other factors include love, pain, envy, joy, energy, etc. That wonderful little emotional spectrum we all have lining our DNA. But among the kickers was the sudden death of my only brother well over 10 years ago now. He died Thanksgiving night, just shy of his 19th birthday. That’s a tale for another day, but what probably goes without saying is that this changed everything for me, not the least of which included my perspective on life, my thoughts on spirituality and religion, how I digested the world, etc. It was the final push that led me to pursue a career in writing, and I’ve had the privilege of working in some great environments over the past decade.
What I haven’t done is engage in a form of writing I’ve really dreamed of pursuing more in my own time: fiction, poetry and other forms of creative nonfiction, such as blogs or essays. A more creative artistic aspect of my life to which I need to pay more attention. Novels and short stories, after all, don’t write themselves. Neither do poems. Although I know there are some who would debate this.
The other thing that really pushed me forward was, simply, reading. In my early 20s, I discovered Jack Kerouac’s writing…I know, many have been smitten by The Beats over the decades, but for me it just snowballed from there. The front door to the world of writing blew open and off its hinges. I began to read more of Kerouac’s words and those of the other writers in that circle, which then led to other novels, stories, poems and essays from other countless writers that have just blown me away in the same manner music has always done. It was a domino effect, and I’ve been incredibly inspired by what I’ve read.
What compels me to write?
Again, no single answer, but in essence it boils down to this: Life.
This is not meant to be some cliché answer. This is meant as truth. So many of us go about our daily lives with blinders on; we tend to walk by oblivious to what’s really happening in front of us. Smart phones have ushered in a new age of distraction; they’ve also given us a powerful and creative tool, one that can be used for great things or that can just be abused. I catch myself daily falling to the whim of ridiculous distractions (because they are thrown in our face every minute). But it’s all part of the learning process. Meditation and mindfulness helps with this. My hope is to capture the element outside of distraction.
I could go on, but Sir Wendig gave his readers a cap of 1,000 words for this assignment. I’m quickly approaching that number, and I’ve rambled enough.
More words to come shortly.
