26 letters. Infinite combinations. What is it about the process of writing that is so enticing, yet at the same time so excruciating?
I rise before the sun today. It’s dark, but the room is familiar, so I rely on muscle memory to get me safely to the washroom, where I then turn on the light. The bright white light fills my eyes and gives my brain a little jolt. I shake the sleep from my head and splash some water on my face. I feel wonderful when I wake up before dawn, like the day is full of endless possibilities.
As I brush my teeth, I think about the two main tasks I want to accomplish this morning. Both of them happen to involve writing. One of them is more pressing; the other is a little less pressing. One is a paid assignment; the other is for a workshop. I’m eager to get going on both.
My mind wanders, and I think about this past weekend. I took some family photos for one of my good friends. Her three kids are at such a great age. They’re chatty and thoughtful. You can explain things to them. You can reason with them. They’re curious and full of wonder. It had been several days since our photo shoot, so as I finish up in the washroom, I decide to turn on my laptop and start the editing. It’s still early, and I don’t have to head out until noon, so lots of time to write later.
My problem with writing is starting. Once I begin, I get into a flow and the hours melt away. But that initial push, that initial spark, that initial motivation… yikes. It’s painful to stare at a blank screen, overthinking, questioning, doubting. I have every intention to start, as the feeling of having something to write and not having it come out is painful in its own right. And yet.
I had a big English assignment in grade 9 that was literally impossible to start. The day before it was due, I came home, fully intending to power through it, but I had a million other things to do. I was working on a 1000 piece puzzle. I didn’t want to get off the phone with my crush. “I’ll do it tomorrow,” I thought. My assignment will rock so I can absorb the 10% penalty and still get at least 80%. Tomorrow came, then the next day, then the next day. I ended up getting 0%.
“Write fast, bad, and rong,” Safi Bahcall tells us. When I've tried it in the past, it works. Never mind the imperfection. Never mind the doubts. Just get it done. And once that initial draft is done… wow, what a feeling. It may be crap, and I may scrap most of it, but at least it’s a start. That first draft. It transforms the process of writing from torturous to fun. It transforms my inner voice from skeptic to believer. I return often to that first draft, adding a little of this, subtracting a bit of that, revisiting this, adjusting that... until I somehow manage to arrange a simple collection of 26 letters in my own special way.
You know, it might be neat to put together a spreadsheet to organize my thoughts around my next adventure. My mind works in spreadsheets. It always has—ever since I discovered their power in first-year university. I’ve spent the majority of my life obsessing over spreadsheets, but not in an unhealthy sort of way. Spreadsheets are a tool. They help me organize my thoughts. They help me offload my mental clutter. I don’t get attached to spreadsheets. They serve their purpose and then I can let them go.
That’s not the same with writing. I get sentimental. I get attached to phrases. I’ll grip tightly onto them even when the tone is not quite right. Even when they have no place in the end product. Perhaps it’s because they were so difficult to birth.
It’s 11am now so I guess I should eat something. Toast is such a fascinating thing. Done right, it’s delightfully crispy on the outside, yet chewy on the inside. Apply too little heat, and the bread never becomes toast. It’s too soft, too malleable. Apply too much heat, and it becomes hard and brittle. Bitter. Am I still bread? Or am I too toasty now?
Sometimes I think my writing is too corporate. When I’m writing for insurance courses, it kind of needs to be. But perhaps that’s the very place that requires a bit more tenderness. A bit more flourish. A bit more art. At other times, I think my writing is too abstract. Too sentimental. Too melancholic. When I was in grade 10, one of my stories included a phrase about a three-legged dog. The dog didn’t belong in the story. It didn’t mean anything. But my teacher went nuts over it. He thought it was brilliant, but honestly, I just left the phrase in there because I had grown attached to it. Maybe it did mean something, but I was too blind to see. Too corporate. Too abstract. Am I destined to live a life at extremes? Oscillating between insurance and three-legged dogs? How do I find a happy medium? Maybe I'm the happy medium.
It’s an interesting thing, this kitchen-ing. I can complete a task like peeling and shredding carrots, while pondering what to write for next week’s memoir class. As I peel and ponder, peel and ponder, it almost feels like moving meditation, except I’m quite clearly thinking active thoughts. I can almost trick myself into thinking that I’m actually writing, except I’m not. I try to tell myself I’m not procrastinating, but I am. Oh. Em. Gee. I love this peeler.
I scan my email one last time before leaving home and one catches my eye. The subject line reads: “You're Invited to Big Ass Fans' New Showroom.” I click on it thinking it’s an art exhibit about gargantuan butts. Why does this intrigue me? Turns out, it’s literally a showroom for large fans. Like the ones you use to cool your room.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been terrified of being misunderstood. Putting words on a page feels so permanent. It’s like putting yourself on show and letting people poke holes in you. In your words. In your ideas. In your character. I often fear that people will realize that I don’t belong here. Perhaps I’m the biggest ass in the room.
I wish I could release my mental clutter when I write, but invariably more questions come up. I wish I could write just for myself, but a part of me needs to see how my words will impact others. To me, this interplay and intermingling of questions and interactions is where the beauty lies. It’s where the truth resides. How do you ensure your words aren’t misinterpreted? How do you write in such a way that people won’t judge you? That you won’t judge yourself? It’s an impossible task. And so writing feels impossible to me. At least for right now.
As I lock the door, having written nothing this glorious morning, I think about the 26 letters. So simple, yet so complex. How these tiny little characters can combine in ways that have such power over people. To move them. To influence them. To offend them. To make them laugh. To bring tears to their eyes. It’s painful to write, but it’s also painful not to write. I often ask myself, “which one hurts more?”
I rise before the sun today. It’s dark, but the room is familiar, so I rely on muscle memory to get me safely to the washroom, where I then turn on the light. The bright white light fills my eyes and gives my brain a little jolt. I shake the sleep from my head and splash some water on my face. I feel wonderful when I wake up before dawn, like the day is full of endless possibilities.
As I brush my teeth, I think about the two main tasks I want to accomplish this morning. Both of them happen to involve writing. One of them is more pressing; the other is a little less pressing. One is a paid assignment; the other is for a workshop. I’m eager to get going on both.
My mind wanders, and I think about this past weekend. I took some family photos for one of my good friends. Her three kids are at such a great age. They’re chatty and thoughtful. You can explain things to them. You can reason with them. They’re curious and full of wonder. It had been several days since our photo shoot, so as I finish up in the washroom, I decide to turn on my laptop and start the editing. It’s still early, and I don’t have to head out until noon, so lots of time to write later.
My problem with writing is starting. Once I begin, I get into a flow and the hours melt away. But that initial push, that initial spark, that initial motivation… yikes. It’s painful to stare at a blank screen, overthinking, questioning, doubting. I have every intention to start, as the feeling of having something to write and not having it come out is painful in its own right. And yet.
I had a big English assignment in grade 9 that was literally impossible to start. The day before it was due, I came home, fully intending to power through it, but I had a million other things to do. I was working on a 1000 piece puzzle. I didn’t want to get off the phone with my crush. “I’ll do it tomorrow,” I thought. My assignment will rock so I can absorb the 10% penalty and still get at least 80%. Tomorrow came, then the next day, then the next day. I ended up getting 0%.
“Write fast, bad, and rong,” Safi Bahcall tells us. When I've tried it in the past, it works. Never mind the imperfection. Never mind the doubts. Just get it done. And once that initial draft is done… wow, what a feeling. It may be crap, and I may scrap most of it, but at least it’s a start. That first draft. It transforms the process of writing from torturous to fun. It transforms my inner voice from skeptic to believer. I return often to that first draft, adding a little of this, subtracting a bit of that, revisiting this, adjusting that... until I somehow manage to arrange a simple collection of 26 letters in my own special way.
You know, it might be neat to put together a spreadsheet to organize my thoughts around my next adventure. My mind works in spreadsheets. It always has—ever since I discovered their power in first-year university. I’ve spent the majority of my life obsessing over spreadsheets, but not in an unhealthy sort of way. Spreadsheets are a tool. They help me organize my thoughts. They help me offload my mental clutter. I don’t get attached to spreadsheets. They serve their purpose and then I can let them go.
That’s not the same with writing. I get sentimental. I get attached to phrases. I’ll grip tightly onto them even when the tone is not quite right. Even when they have no place in the end product. Perhaps it’s because they were so difficult to birth.
It’s 11am now so I guess I should eat something. Toast is such a fascinating thing. Done right, it’s delightfully crispy on the outside, yet chewy on the inside. Apply too little heat, and the bread never becomes toast. It’s too soft, too malleable. Apply too much heat, and it becomes hard and brittle. Bitter. Am I still bread? Or am I too toasty now?
Sometimes I think my writing is too corporate. When I’m writing for insurance courses, it kind of needs to be. But perhaps that’s the very place that requires a bit more tenderness. A bit more flourish. A bit more art. At other times, I think my writing is too abstract. Too sentimental. Too melancholic. When I was in grade 10, one of my stories included a phrase about a three-legged dog. The dog didn’t belong in the story. It didn’t mean anything. But my teacher went nuts over it. He thought it was brilliant, but honestly, I just left the phrase in there because I had grown attached to it. Maybe it did mean something, but I was too blind to see. Too corporate. Too abstract. Am I destined to live a life at extremes? Oscillating between insurance and three-legged dogs? How do I find a happy medium? Maybe I'm the happy medium.
It’s an interesting thing, this kitchen-ing. I can complete a task like peeling and shredding carrots, while pondering what to write for next week’s memoir class. As I peel and ponder, peel and ponder, it almost feels like moving meditation, except I’m quite clearly thinking active thoughts. I can almost trick myself into thinking that I’m actually writing, except I’m not. I try to tell myself I’m not procrastinating, but I am. Oh. Em. Gee. I love this peeler.
I scan my email one last time before leaving home and one catches my eye. The subject line reads: “You're Invited to Big Ass Fans' New Showroom.” I click on it thinking it’s an art exhibit about gargantuan butts. Why does this intrigue me? Turns out, it’s literally a showroom for large fans. Like the ones you use to cool your room.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been terrified of being misunderstood. Putting words on a page feels so permanent. It’s like putting yourself on show and letting people poke holes in you. In your words. In your ideas. In your character. I often fear that people will realize that I don’t belong here. Perhaps I’m the biggest ass in the room.
I wish I could release my mental clutter when I write, but invariably more questions come up. I wish I could write just for myself, but a part of me needs to see how my words will impact others. To me, this interplay and intermingling of questions and interactions is where the beauty lies. It’s where the truth resides. How do you ensure your words aren’t misinterpreted? How do you write in such a way that people won’t judge you? That you won’t judge yourself? It’s an impossible task. And so writing feels impossible to me. At least for right now.
As I lock the door, having written nothing this glorious morning, I think about the 26 letters. So simple, yet so complex. How these tiny little characters can combine in ways that have such power over people. To move them. To influence them. To offend them. To make them laugh. To bring tears to their eyes. It’s painful to write, but it’s also painful not to write. I often ask myself, “which one hurts more?”