“maybe i should write something”
God, even the first line is brutal for me. Just the first line! Should I open up with some kind of metaphor about the journal that I bought a month ago on amazon dot com, which came wrapped in plastic, but nevertheless has discolored and dented pages? Yes, the scuffed edges of the notebook are what prevented me from picking it up and documenting a single thought I’ve had for the past month. And then hey, let’s use that metaphor as an entry for a discussion of my perfectionist tendencies. How original! Wow, you’re trying to be a writer, while also being a perfectionist? If that isn’t the oldest trope, the most self-fulfilling prophecy in the book.
How long has it been since the last time I wrote something? Well, I write for work all the time. But largely, the things I write are these bite-sized social media snippets. (Look at that! Another window for diatribe, on how the attention economy is fragmenting our collective and individual abilities to focus on something. See, that’s what this blog is actually supposed to be getting at, theoretically.) But this type of work I don’t consider to be writing, really. I know that because it’s not hard for me. Oh boy, here we go.
What are the origins of my distaste for writing? Maybe it begins at the image of a writer that I have in my head, or the faint imagination of a final product that I can hold in my hands and show to my grandma. I think both of those ideas get at the problem, at least slightly. The problem, I guess, is that this is a results-oriented way of thinking, rather than a process-oriented way of thinking. I envision a result; an image of myself as a writer, or an image of what I’ve created as a finished product. But those visions are in constant flux. On some days I am Carrie Bradshaw, and on other days I feel like Malcom Gladwell, and on still others I’m presenting a set of well-designed slides on my novel climate change research. On some days I want to write about thoughts, and on other days I want to write about feelings, and then there are times where I want to write about my thoughts on feelings or my feelings on thoughts. How do I get excited about writing when the inside of my brain feels like I left my headphones in my jeans pocket and they went through wash AND dry?
The perfectionism is probably a part of this. Maybe it comes back to the simulacra! I enjoy theory and all that, but admittedly get most of my information from TikTok, so bear with me. Lately I’ve been super interested in the way that the erosion of religious institutions and national pride has pushed people to identify aesthetics via consumerism and capitalism. So like, achieving the “granola girl” aesthetic, where it’s required that you have a cute ski fit, and a cute water bottle with stickers, and hiking clothes, and et cetera that all fall into a set of aesthetic boundaries. The “aesthetic boundaries” is an interesting concept or term that I've just come up with, that I want to elaborate on further. But long story short, the consumption of goods and purchasing of different items is not requisite for the aesthetic’s accompanying activities. So, if you’re a granola girl, for example, you probably enjoy hiking and the outdoors, or climbing and skiing, or playing with your dog outside, or camping. But you can still do all those things in a non-aesthetic way, if you’re not consuming in excess, or if the products you consume to take part in these activities don’t fall within the aesthetic boundaries. So the aesthetic boundaries don’t impact anything that actually gets done, rather, they impact the image of you doing the thing. This goes back to ce nest pas un pipe or whatever, too, but I don’t know much about that guy, so that’s all.
The point being here, that maybe the way I conceive writing in my mind is outcome-driven, rather than process-driven. moreover, maybe my concept of writing is aesthetic-driven, or image-focused, rather than action-focused. Likely, these attitudes toward writing are impeding my writing — because writing is probably the most process-driven thing to do that there is. Maybe my problem is that, when I think of myself writing, I think of Carrie Bradshaw on the side of a bus. Or I think of adding my own collection of short essays to the pile of books that prop up my nightstand, and the collection has a nicely designed cover, and the pages contain my own thinly-veiled neuroticism applied to parts of my life that maybe other people might be able to relate to. When really, I need to be Carrie Bradshaw smoking a cigarette in bed while typing away on her laptop even if the draft never sees the light of day. Which I guess is what I’m doing right now, but I’m trying to be off nicotine right now (this will likely crumble in 15min, approximately).
Maybe the problem is that when I think of writing, I think of recognition. Writing has, for a long time, been a vehicle through which I’ve sought to be understood, or if not, sought to understand myself. This might be working against me, a bit, in terms of the process part. But it’s also why I bought that yellow notebook in the first place — because I felt like I had a million and one little thoughts rattling around the inside of my brain like a pinball machine, and god please help me get them outta there. I guess the other part of it, though, is that I seek to be understood because I feel like I have some really good shit to say. And maybe if you heard about how I thought about things, in a way that isn’t as unhinged as, “I had a few cocktails and now I’m yelling about the digital economy,” you might be like, “Ah, she’s really onto something here.”
There’s a funny distinction to make in that last paragraph — because what is wanting recognition? Why want recognition? So I’m onto something, why should anyone else care? It’s funny because on the outside, that could seem selfish, right. “I want people to agree with me!” Well, I do, but it’s just because I think I’m right. Not because I’m more worthy, for some reason, but because I think the thoughts are good thoughts and maybe if more people thought this way we might end up in a better place altogether.
So, the way I think of writing is outcome-driven, and when I think of writing, I think of recognition, which I feel I deserve, because I think I’m right. Well aren’t I just a walking piece of shit and a ridiculous narcissist! Is my first reaction to this line of thinking, the second line of thinking being, holyshit should I go get checked out for a personality disorder (have been quietly worrying that I am a sociopath for a couple months, now, but that’s a story for another time.) So now that I’m an egotistical maniac and a chronic procrastinator, what happens? Well, these are all the struggles I have with writing. So maybe if I can turn all these upside down, I’ll be able to write good shit and I’ll also be another person. Because I guess the writing process also really humbles you. Everyone thinks they’re right until someone prompts them to interrogate themselves — especially sober.
And hey, here’s step one of turning shit upside down — I just wrote! I wrote this, stream of consciousness, and I didn’t care, and I just fucking wrote it. Fuck fuck fuck yoU! I did it!
Until next time,
Alix