on becoming

on the things that keep us going

If there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that when I say I’ll do the thing, I do the thing. The thing could be anything: cook dinner, fold socks, run seventy errands in one day. I’m a to-do lister. If you give me a task, I return with a handful of small, actionable steps to get us there.

But the one thing I haven’t been able to do is finish my novel.

It’s a classic self-sabotage sort of job. I set a deadline, did the plotting and researching, and did the writing, sort of. I set aside time in my schedule to do the thing. And then it very slowly went up in flames. The panic button was hit, the alarms were blaring, and every red signal went up: about timing, worth, originality, progress. I panicked about anything you could think of when it comes to writing. And I found myself disappointed, tucking the story aside.

But let me tell you a secret: As much as I’m annoyed at myself for stalling, I’m equally afraid of what the future might bring. Afraid I won’t be loved, won’t be liked. Of criticisms and what people might discover about me.

I think it’s more comfortable if I never stick to an idea. If I never set aside the time to breathe life into characters or think of who they are, I avoid any chaos I may bring unto myself. The story I have in my head can always remain perfect and flawless because I don’t have to acknowledge the possible plot holes in front of me.

I’ve come so far, I’m a little over halfway through the word count, if that even matters anymore, who knows? And every day that passes where I don’t add to it, don’t edit it or just do something to the story, I feel that creeping regret and guilt poking me in the back.

I teeter on the precipice of self-sabotage.

You know how when your friend wants to ask for something but becomes shy, so you Mom-Up and ask for the thing for them? And how it’s far easier to champion someone else because you love them and want the best for them. But when it comes to supporting yourself, you slap yourself with a bag of criticisms instead and tough love? That’s me. But a few weeks ago, I had a thought. I should probably stop beating myself up so much because it’s not about getting there quickly, it’s about enjoying the process of getting there. I’m focusing on the wrong thing.

There’s this notion that if we just put our heads down and bulldoze our way through, we’ll get to wherever we’re going. We’ve been taught that hard work pays off because how can it not, but the reality is that’s not always true. And we’re disappointed when we don’t hit the jackpot.

I’ve put myself in a position to see this novel as a hurdle to get over, a bump on the journey to becoming an author, when, in fact, the writing of it is the entire goal. I think the idea of being published, of having that legitimacy and feeling like I’ve done something with my life that matters, has been a driving force for a long time, but it’s not a sustainable one. I need to pivot towards a better image. I’ve found myself in this pressure chamber, hoping that with enough force and determination, a diamond will pop out the other end. That maybe all this spent energy would be worth it in the end because “great achievement is usually born of great sacrifice,” right?

But this has been eating into my reserves of mental positivity and, let me tell you, it’s not in endless supply.

I recently spoke with a small London-based artist who sold a few of her art pieces in a Gallery. She was talking about how they said she had a successful launch, just making £30k. But she mentioned that after having paid the gallery’s cut, as well as the costs for framing, packing and shipping the items, she was taking home just under £10k. I asked her, openly, if this was what she always wanted to do - if all that effort was worth the cost (with the understanding that I have no idea how much painting or art costs nowadays). She then said that she does it, not because of the possibility of a financial reward, but because she loves it.

I get it. I think about my writing, and even if I never get the opportunity to have it published, even at great cost, I would continue to write anyway because I love it. Writing is putting words to a page, yes, but it is also the culmination of hours reading plot-development books, it’s spending hours rewriting scenes; it's about creating characters and recreating those same characters when you realise that they don’t work for you anymore; it’s the frustration you have when you need to pivot from the idea you first had in your head — that you spent hours upon days upon weeks trying to make work. And in all of that, there’s an undercurrent of excitement to keep me going because it feeds a creative part of my soul that nothing else can reach.

Perhaps you have felt similarly about something, too. It’s great to have someone motivate you to keep going, but more often than not we have to conjure that strength within ourselves. Whether you’re met with praise, a nod of the head, or nothing at all, you keep going because the very act itself keeps you going.

Right now, I’m dismissing the deadline I have; publishing can wait — J.R.R. Tolkien didn’t publish until he was 45, and Laura Ingalls Wilder at 62. I like to think that buys me a few more years to get my shit together. For now, I’m enjoying the process.

---