On Writing

I’ve wasted years of my life looking for permission to create. According to my false presumption, if I was told “Yes, follow your passion,” the stars would magically align and I would create and do so exceptionally well.

But that never happened. Instead, the anticipation of approval and encouragement from others only dulled the sense of my creative self. I produced no artwork, but I mastered the art of producing excuses. As a result, I had nothing to show for it and plenty to despise about myself. But is that how it ends?

***

I was most productive as a writer in my teenage years. Despite that tender age, I wasn’t concerned with others’ opinions of my pursuits. Back then, writing poetry, lyrics, and a novel was simply an act of exploration with one goal in mind — to see where my imagination would lead me. No expectations. No comparisons. No fears.

Naturally, the world supported me too. When you’re young, your parents and teachers encourage your pursuit of art. Any primitive painting or half-baked story would be rhapsodized over. But when you enter university, that tune suddenly changes. Practicality and career opportunities come to the forefront and creative ambitions are encouragingly cast aside. My story is no different.

I gave up writing. Studying hard and having a stable job became my top priorities. I had bills to pay and preferred to secure my future. No harm in that. Yet, as I worked to build a secure life and provide for myself, I drifted further away from my aspirations.

I had graduated from university, found a job, and had been living what is considered a normal life. But with the exception of a few paltry short stories, I stopped writing altogether.

Everything would have been fine and I would have gone about my life if it weren’t for that one thing: I kept wanting to be a writer. Inexhaustibly. Greedily. But somehow, and unfortunately, my laziness and self-doubt were stronger than my desire to write.

Instead of using my longing to take the necessary actions (that is sit down and do the work), I justified my inactivity with a bunch of excuses.

“I don’t have time” was one of the more popular ones and it even seemed like a decent reason. I had a full-time job, after all.

This excuse, however, should have been easily refuted. Work takes up about a third of a day, which is a significant portion, but not all of it. Sleep takes up another third. What about the final third? You name it: going out with friends, watching TV, and getting lost in the web of social media profiles. But no, there was no time for the mentally excruciating but incomparably satisfying artistic pursuit.

To expose my hoax, I cited countless people who published novels while working multiple jobs. Particularly, the stories of single mothers like J.K. Rowling and Toni Morrison obliterated my lack-of-time excuse.

“I have no talent,” was another popular self-pitying whine. I was raised on the belief that talent is essential for creative endeavors. Only naturally gifted writers can produce great work. Since I didn’t want to be a mediocre writer (duh) and I didn’t believe I had a talent, I capitulated without resistance.

It would take me years to let go of that impenetrable conviction. I had to intentionally seek out hundreds of examples showing that work can and does surpass talent. The evidence mounted, and when I could no longer arrogantly claim “Talent is all there is to it,” I dropped that excuse.

“There are more important things to do” was an excuse that short-circuited my logic, yet it still prevailed. I kept telling myself that writing was the most important thing to me. Yet when it came to action, I procrastinated hiding behind the necessity of doing laundry, going shopping, or cooking meals. Those routine errands that were not supposed to take up my productive time did so with my explicit permission. I had to get sick of my words not coinciding with my actions for years before moving on.

The cherry on top of my self-inflicted-bunch-of-pitiful-excuses cake was “I can’t afford to pursue writing.” That was a tough one. This excuse had deep psychological roots, making it challenging to dismantle.

I was (and still am) insecure about money. I grew up in a low-income family. Though we weren’t poor, my parents’ modest lifestyle made me realize I couldn’t rely on them for financial support. Instead, I helped them, and that responsibility made me pragmatic.

I became more cognizant of how I spent my time. I was quick to divide all activities I did into “useful” — those that brought or potentially could bring income, and irrelevant, idle activities — those that took time and had no immediate return. Writing, as the frivolous and time-consuming activity it was, had no place in my anxious, productive world.

I had other fears, too. I had the fear that I couldn’t really write, or if I did, it would be poor and I would be poor alongside it. the fear that there would be no audience, or even worse, that if readers were found, I would be ridiculed. In other words, I was afraid of rejection and inadequacy, a fairly common fear when joining the realm of creators. So ubiquitous, in fact, that it’s unseemly to use them as a valid excuse.

As much as I recognized the fear in the face, its power didn’t go away. It diminished but in an annoying manner — enough to discourage me from writing, but not enough to make me give up the idea of becoming a writer altogether. I wanted to create, that desire never went away, but my actions didn’t align with my wants. The more I tried to ignore the pervasive desire to write, the more miserable I was. I felt as if my life was passing me by, and it made me despondent and apathetic.

I actively sought solutions from the outside to resolve my inner conflict. I began to ask my confidants, family, and friends whether I should write. Now I see that a lousy question can only generate a lousy answer. Of course they supported me, fully aware of my zeal, however feeble it was. But I ignored that support as superficial and worthless.

I began to seek out praise and exhortation from strangers who were not afraid to hurt my feelings. Their permission would be unbiased and should provide enough fuel for my writing process, I reasoned. I started posting articles on Medium and social media and had exclusively positive responses. But that resulted in diminishing returns. The hypertrophied praise of my meager efforts devalued its worth. I couldn’t trust such an endorsement and I turned to the final resort.

I contacted authors who had published books and received acclaim. If they would tell me that I was talented, then I should definitely, unapologetically, and ceaselessly write. Lucky me, I got my feedback, but not the kind I expected. No criticism, no praise, no encouragement. Only “if you have to ask, then you shouldn’t.” To my surprise, rather than discourage me, that response set my mind straight.

I realized no amount of praise and prodding would get me to write. Permission from someone doesn’t hold the same weight as permission granted by yourself. To give yourself permission, you must let go of the idea that someone’s approval is a magical force that can set everything right, able to make you let go of your fears, do your work, and believe in yourself.

Only the permission you give yourself removes the fog and sparks the action.

We are complex creatures. We can dig into ourselves for decades and find all sorts of reasons, excuses, and explanations for our behavior. But what we can’t hide behind is our actions, here and now. Their straightforwardness does not lend themselves to psychological analysis. They are brutally transparent and eloquent.

I was extremely dissatisfied with my actions; that being my deliberate avoidance of writing. I grew tired of my fears and excuses. My final straw was realizing that I had wasted so much time seeking permission from people when, at the end of the day, it made no difference.

This train only runs in one direction. Nearing my 30s, I feel more acutely that I can no longer afford to waste my time seeking approval and permission from others. If I want to write that book, that novel, that article, I must act now. It can take years to hone a skill (as I learned in my battle with the concept of ‘talent’) and time passes far too quickly to just sit around idly.

I no longer chase surpassing quality of verse, audience recognition, and monetary revenue. I have reconciled myself to the idea that, quite possibly, they would never come. And this acceptance frees me from the fear of failure.

Failure is the default state of life if we do nothing. But when we keep showing up every day, despite our internal blocks and insecurities, it’s a victory that gives us the power to carry on.

I’m sick of the excuses as well as other psychological traps, such as imposter syndrome, writer’s block, and perfectionism. That doesn’t mean I’ve developed immunity to them. They are part of my ecosystem and, sadly, aren’t going anywhere. But I accept their presence and the pain they cause. Better occasional doubts than perpetual mental anguish.

Now I write every day. Sometimes it’s nonsensical, wacky thoughts that no one will ever see. Sometimes, it’s essays like this one that I hope will reach an audience. Sometimes, it’s ambitious art projects, both frightening and uplifting, that have no delineated destiny. I continue to write even without publications, dithyrambs, or acclaim. This is the state every creator must reach. So deliberating.

I still have my dark moments and weaknesses. I can sit and stare at a blank page calling myself all sorts of names. I avoid reading the stories of young writers who have released books in their 20s. I don’t have a novel in draft. Not even an idea. I constantly hear the voice in my head calling my efforts pathetic and my work mediocre. But I’ve been there, done that. I choose to move on.

My psyche, my personality, my soul, whatever you want to call it, sees writing as one of the most rewarding activities I can do, so I better listen to myself and write. Otherwise I’ll go crazy. The daily ritual of writing heals the wound of inactivity, which had been festering resentment and depression for years. Now I’m on my way out.

***

You may also be seeking support from your family, friends, and loved ones. Praise, acclaim, and respect from the world are certainly welcome, too. And that sweet, ultimate self-esteem booster: a person who you look up to recognizes your work, your contribution to the field. What an honor. A dream come true.

But what if that never happens? What if you leave your half-finished book and stop your creative endeavors because someone doesn’t encourage you to keep going, because others ignore your efforts? Then what? In my experience, it just leads to misery and regret.

We rely too much on the external world for power and ignore the strength within us. We succumb to our weaknesses and it costs us dearly in unfulfilled potential. Waiting for the right moment, the right time, and the right response is a way to avoid responsibility for your inaction. Your laziness. Your self-doubt. I know it because I had my war and I barely made it out mentally fit.

You don’t want to be in that place. And if you are, if you are fighting your battle over whether you should pursue creative work or not, don’t turn to others for an answer. The permission given by someone else is worthless. Your nurtured belief in yourself is worth everything.

I’ll leave you to it.