Writing doesn't have to be so hard
The creative process became fun and easy once I stopped trying to remove myself from it
When I first started trying to write, I hated almost everything I produced, other than what was in my personal journals and letters I wrote to loved ones. In those spaces, my writing had humor, color, tenderness, and the ring of truth. I loved revisiting those pieces of writing because they made my insides hum like a tuning fork. But, I told myself, this is not my “real writing”. I couldn’t make a body of work out of this kind of stuff because it was private, too personal, too revealing, too embarrassing. So I tried to find other stuff to write about that was more “appropriate” for public consumption.
I’d scratch around in my brain for fresh, clever ideas but wind up mimicking the work of other writers I admired. I’d try too hard to be witty and come off sounding vacuous or shrill. I would present my insights in a way that I thought made me seem authoritative and confident, but I always came across as sanctimonious or clichéd instead. My attempts to be provocative just made my writing arrogant and combative. Try as I might, I rarely wrote anything that I was really proud of or pleased with, so I shared very, very little. I decided I sucked at creative writing and should stick to editing other people’s work.
What I didn’t know then is that my writing wasn’t working because I was trying to hide my true self between the lines, performing for an imaginary critic instead of writing to express my real thoughts and feelings. In my attempts to make myself more relatable and entertaining, I was killing my creativity and crushing my own spirit.
I think it’s pretty wild that I got lost inside this blind spot, considering that I knew perfectly well that all good art stems from the artist’s willingness to offer what is uniquely theirs and to be seen for who they are, and that the courage to be honest and vulnerable is the price of admission to the creative life.
Ok, I told myself, but this can’t apply to me, or at least not this version of me. Not the real me. It’s not that I didn’t know my own nature; I just couldn’t accept it. I wanted to be someone else—or a cooler, more confident, healthier, more impressive version of myself, without all my messy mistakes, insecurity and dysfunction. In trying to write from what I thought was a more palatable version of myself, I buried my living spark.
The irony is that I love reading work that is raw, honest, and personal. I find writers more relatable, not less, when they show me their humanity and invite me into the shadowy corners of their heart.
It took a tremendous amount of personal healing work for me to feel accepting enough of myself to write with real honesty. Crucially, I have also learned that writing honestly doesn’t mean disclosing anything and everything. Putting boundaries around what I want to keep private actually frees me to be more open and generous with the stories and ideas I do want to share.
I’m still getting used to this level of authenticity. Some days I reflexively retreat to a more arm’s-length stance. Whenever I feel reluctant to sit down and write, it’s almost always because I have distanced myself from the task and slipped into “content creation” mode, setting myself a writing assignment that feels more like an obligation than an act of self-expression. If I manage to produce anything in this state, it’s inevitably dead on arrival because it is manufactured rather than being born from the creative process.
The cure for this is to open my inner ear to what is alive in me right now. And I never come up empty handed. How could I? We humans are such complex, dynamic creatures! There is a hive of activity inside each of us at every single moment of our lives. Right now, you and I and every other human on earth are processing emotions, testing theories, recalling memories, piecing our personal stories together, building arguments, making sense of the world around us and learning from our experiences.
These things that are alive in you are what you should write about. Not what you think is expected of you. Not what you believe is popular, cool, or trendy. Not what you think presents you in a flattering light. And certainly not what that person over there is writing about. You don’t have their magic. You can’t do what they do. But you have your own magic. It is in you for reason, and the more you engage with it, explore it, accept it, and share it, the bigger and brighter and louder it grows.
Writing prompt: What I didn’t know then…
This post is the product of the writing prompt: What I didn’t know then… (See it in my third paragraph, above?)
I love this prompt because it naturally draws in two perspectives—the person you were at some point in the past and your present self. The tension between these two versions of you is a gold mine of contrasts and surprising connections worth exploring in your writing.
It could lead to a melancholy story of regrets, misplaced faith, and youthful naïveté, or a triumphant tale of liberation, expansion and discovery. It can even lead to a piece that contains both.
This prompt can jump start a poem or draw you more deeply into a character or theme. It can be an opening line, or simply a concept to contemplate as you explore the deeper layers of your story or essay.
What have you learned that you didn’t know then?
xo
Hey Maggie, Thanks a lot for this. I think I have been doing exactly what you said and not putting myself in my writing and it has stifled me completely and stopped me from writing!!!
Thanks so much.
Penelope