I sit in my bath and I search for YouTube Videos about how to get started writing on Obsidian. But as I stare at yet another medium of writing, I recall the multiple ways I’ve been approaching writing and I feel this wave of remorse and regret of just not writing when I could. Not that I am physically unable to write, but I just wish I had started instead of stared at more videos or overthink my approach.
I chance on other videos about how essay writing helps to develop argument and makes you place ideas out of your head. So I start this essay stating the reasons why I am unable to start writing. The irony is clear.
The biggest question I have is “What do I do?” In graphic design, wherein my training lies, I open an artboard, and start drawing an idea into life. It comes visually, and I develop that idea into more things as it goes along. The writing version seems to be opening a word processing app, and to just start.
But I find this process scary. What happens? How do I start the premise? I’ve read a few books on writing but I think Stephen King’s character narrative start is the easiest one to approach. He suggests using an unconventional premise, and to build on that, with good explanations, good phrasing, and to just make it a well written sentence. Then it leads to a well written paragraph, chapter, book, series.
I also enjoy Annie Lemott’s Bird by Bird, suggesting starting with an explanation of everyday life in my own way. Any scene, no matter how small.
I’ve actually had a couple of good premises written, and then I start my next problem:
How do I allow the story to flow if I don’t have time?
I’m a working dad. I have a kid to take care of, I have chores to do, and I have other things I have to consider as whole. When I get home, and until I go to bed, I’m constantly in a state of catching up. It’s a slide that doesn’t stop until I lie down in bed. I lift up my mobile phone to try write a thought or a sentence, and I get jarred awake because the phone’s fallen flat on my face. I decide to go to sleep, because nothing’s making sense any more. The next day is a rinse and repeat, and the desire to write is still there. Occasionally, windows of opportunity appear, and I decide it’s easier to write a blog post, because it’s something measurable. I know I’ve written something making sense, and it’s seen.
A story becomes an artefact in seclusion. No one sees the work, and only I know the extent of progress. But I am the world’s worst task master for personal expression. I hold the keys to the scales of creative judgement and I have failed myself too many times. The artefact is not good for human consumption or viewing. But that’s nonsense. In the words of Limp Bizkit, it’s all about the he said she said bullshit.
In writing this specific reason, I see my own flaws. I choose the measurable writing form, because I can track it. I understand that now. So my next question: Why do I choose the measurable writing?
Why is it so hard to put words on a blank page, especially when I cannot see the end in mind? Is it because I cannot see the end, therefore, it ends up being meaningless? But thus my flaw in logic, I have no foresight to know how it’s result. I just have to write because I want to. I have to write because there are stories to tell.
But what are the meaning behind my stories? Must there be meaning to stories? In my design and artwork, I want people to stop and think. But in writing, in reading, they are already stopping and thinking. I’ve seen people read through my zines and come to laughs and giggles, because that’s what I had intended. Longer stories might not carry the direct punch. Am I afraid of no response? Am I afraid of failure? Am I truly a nothing-burger?
(nothing burger, a term used in my work studio whenever one of us says a whole lot of stuff, but there’s no real point to all the words.)
Perhaps perfectionism is the fear I have. It’s Joel the Judge, with my pitchfork at my throat, ready to stab out trite writing and overly dramatic phrasing. How cringe! The audacity!
I think I enjoy writing here because I am allowed to make fun of myself, for the world to see. But when I write, if I make fun of myself, there’s no one laughing. It’s just me and the mirror of my work. If I laugh at myself, I’m insane, and terribly pathetic at the same time. I have to give myself a chance at very least.
So. I write.
Later.