Truly Terrible Writing

This post was originally published June 8, 2023.

Two years ago, I listened to the audiobook The War of Art by Stephen Pressfield, and the whole premise of the book really stood out to me as a writer: Resistance is our biggest enemy. At the time, I was about 75% done writing my novel. Getting closer to the finish line was proving to be a slog, compounded by other life changes, including the big terrible time of COVID19. In an earlier post, I detailed some of my experiences and feelings regarding writing at the time. To say the least, my relationship with writing was strained, and thus my relationship to myself was strained too.

But the sun has a funny way of still rising every morning, and with it, the same question echoed through my head—some days as a whisper; some days as a scream: “Why aren’t you writing?”

Each day the answer might be different. Sometimes there was no answer at all. Mostly, though, I’ve learned that simple questions have simple answers confounded by complex concerns. Pressfield said it best. I was experiencing resistance. His entire book circled around this concept, and the part that seemed to call me out was the section that explained: the resistance gets worse the closer you get to the end.

I spent two years being about 75% done writing my novel.

There’s something incredibly terrifying about finishing a project, and the more time that passes, the more my relationship grows. When the book is not done, it can be anything. The writing can be the best there is, the characters can be fresh, funny, and relatable. The story can resonate with millions of people, who will feel just as attached to it as me, who has spent years thinking about it.

To finish it means to move on from it. To be done writing means to figure out how to do everything that comes after: the editing, the navigation of the publishing world, and eventually, the commitment to a new project. I know how to write, and I know how to write this book, but my brain was so scared of finishing it—so resistant to it—because, well, then I’d be done. It would be written. I would need to move on.

I was talking to a friend about my future and writing. How so much is filled with uncertainty, but the one thing I know with certainty, is that so much of my disappointment in life comes from me not writing. I’m not mad at myself for it. These last few years have been hard, and it’s not just the global pandemic, or me trying to find my footing outside of the education system, or all of my health problems that still are yet to be diagnosed. Both I and the world are complex beings, constantly subject to change and competing interests. All I can do is have a commitment to the cultivation of my creativity. Some days that commitment will look different than others. Some days it will be hundreds of written words, and some days it will just be a promise to try to do better tomorrow.

I still struggle with this, as all writers do, but over the past year I’ve found some ways to improve my success. Shoutout to Michelle for offering to be my writing accountability partner. I email her every day when I’ve written, and if I don’t email for a few days, she checks in.

And no, I’ve never lied about writing. Some days late at night I force myself in front of my computer and beg myself to write one sentence. Usually that leads to a few more, but sometimes it really is just one sentence. Sometimes the writing isn’t in my book, but in a journal, a letter, or the ramblings of a never fully realized scene.

A friend and I have been meeting virtually every week for over a year now to write together. We usually generate random prompts, pick a couple things we know have to happen in the scene, and then we take turns writing. At first, I felt a strange awkwardness to have someone waiting to be tagged in to write, but it turned out to be really good for me. There’s nothing like having someone waiting in silence for you to put words on a page.

In the beginning, it was difficult. When I was writing for my friend and when I was writing for myself. I was so resistant to putting things on the page because of the fear of it not being good enough. To write is to be vulnerable, and sometimes my vulnerability isn’t eloquent, pretty, or profound. Sometimes it’s truly terrible.

I’m conditioning myself to write, and I’m becoming quicker at overcoming the resistance. I just tell myself: Write anything. It can be awful. It can be the worst writing in the world. Just write something.

And I do.

And I did.

I finished my book, and I don’t think it’s truly terrible writing, but it would be okay if it was. I’m spending some time editing it now between my blog posts, occasionally daydreaming other stories I might develop just as much passion for. I’m forcing myself to sit down and cultivate my creativity. I’m pushing myself to write, and sometimes it feels like kicking and screaming, but I’m happier for it.