Dear Internauts,
In preparation for a yard sale my folks were having, I'd been digging through old plastic crates for anything remotely sale-worthy when I ran into the stacks of notebooks from my younger days. Consisting mostly of writing I'd produced between sixth grade to my college years, these were often pages first accrued for the sake of schoolwork and homework, which instead of doing I'd more often set aside for the sake of scribbling whatever rambling thoughts my troubled adolescent mind might conjure. Often in the format of a song, or barring that the line-by-line rhythmic function of a Whitman-esque fraud, I would not simply fill these pages but, upon inking both sides of every sheet, go back and turn them ninety degrees before disgorging another layer of black or blue ink over-top the previous. What I could manage to read sans nausea I found to be the struggle of a young mind to come to terms with the social, religious, and academic pressures of twenty-first century western teenage life. Most of it tedious, repetitive, and beyond banal, I would collapse from cringing were it not for the pathetic and sympathetic sense of loss found in this hyper-emotional half-being floating chaotically in a nonsense world.
What struck me, besides the sheer absurdity of this young fool's quantity of expression—what may be called prolific if any of it were even somewhat nuanced, original, or of interesting quality—was how freely it all flowed. There was no waiting for inspiration to strike. Panic was all the inspiration needed as the weight of this kid's young world wrung out verse like a washcloth in the path of a collapsed dam. Compulsion to create served as such a strong opposing force to the necessity of any other aspect of life that I sometimes found little, boxed-off sections saved for class notes hidden within the larger deluge of literary excrement and the occasional short segment of comic doodling. The largely unintelligible mass of thought splatter existed so blatantly outside the realm of critique, self-edit, or second guessing. It had to exist. I would puff up and likely explode if not for regularly inky bleedings.
The point of this all is the contrast with my current self-doubt when it comes to creativity. While I still experience the occasional sudden deluge of written obsession, I have now built up so many gates and intellectual stop-gaps between the flicker of inspiration and the expression of thought that in contrast to my previous production, it wouldn't be too far off to say I don't create much of anything at all. Any thought of creation is bombarded by doubts, fears, and criticism before it has any time or space to breathe. No tiny bacterium or figment has much begun to spin into itself before it must come up against the enormous challenge of that which is "good enough" or "worthwhile" or "presentable". Any potential poetic endeavor is a potential song and therefore a potential contender for the greatest or more likely the worst song I or anyone has ever written. This could be the hit, the one they all stand and applaud for, the one that I'll hear on the radio one day, the one that'll make all my former friends and lovers stop and wish they'd treated me better as I raise an award over my head and thank my parents for believing in me. Or at very least it might be a nice step in "the right direction" for me as a songwriter.
Whether it be poetry or prose, I'd much rather be writing fiction than whatever something like this blog is. And the truth is that every final draft is more often than not preceded by multiple less-than-final drafts. We must allow ourselves to create horrible first drafts, says every other writing article online.
Anyway, didn't Harrison Ford not start acting till he was in his 30s? Didn't Vincent Van Gogh not start painting till he has 26 or so? How many times was JK Rowling or Oprah rejected before someone saw their real genius? How many horrible, never to be seen first drafts sit silent somewhere in the basement of the greats or even just the mediocre masses of professional creators?
For a similar reason to why I've spent the past few nights unable to sleep while also unable to open my eyes from exhaustion, tossing this way and that and screaming internally for dissatisfaction and the stress-induced ache in my jaw, squeezed shut unintentionally till my spit tastes like blood, I now write this week's blog on Tuesday afternoon. Unable to refrain from looking at views from previous weeks, I shiver from the weight of what if. I want to polish a mirror before it's been made, cut a diamond before it's been mined.
The fearful potential for even minor greatness does more to hinder its most basic possibility than the first steps of faulty creation ever could.
Fear, pain, dissatisfaction, uncertainty, and weakness are such universal traits that their expression creates some of the most relatable pieces in existence. However, their experience can also lead to the greatest hindrance of creation.
There is no promise that the boxes of notebooks will lead to a Pulitzer or a Grammy. There is no record deal secretly hidden in practicing your scales or signing up for an open mic. Nobody reaches the top of the mountain in one step, but then nobody reaches the top of the mountain without the first step.
It's messy and wild and gross and confusing and real and paranoid and shaking and struggling to breathe. It's writing a blog about not knowing how to write because at least that's writing something, right?
Oh well. It's something.
Thanks for reading,
Odist
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