Summary

The author describes a complex, evolving relationship with writing, which has shifted from a childhood pastime and therapeutic outlet to a professional pursuit fraught with pressure and expectation.

Abstract

The author shares a personal journey with writing, initially a source of joy and creativity in childhood, evolving into a means of coping with emotions during adolescence. As an adult, the author's relationship with writing becomes complicated when it transitions from a cathartic hobby to a professional endeavor with the expectation of daily productivity and the stress of performance metrics. The shift from passion to profession has led to a love-hate relationship, with writing alternating between being a source of income and a cause of stress. Despite the challenges, the author acknowledges the need to maintain a healthy balance and to remember the love for writing that initially drew them to it.

Opinions

Writing was a source of positive attention and personal fulfillment during the author's childhood.
As a teenager, writing served as a form of therapy to express feelings of angst, depression, and unrequited love.
The author views writing as both a best friend and an enemy, indicating a deep emotional connection and conflict.
The author admits to being an undisciplined "mood writer," only writing when inspired or compelled by emotion.
The transition to making a living from writing has introduced pressure and a sense of obligation, which the author finds challenging.
The author experiences periods of writer's block, exacerbated by the need to consistently produce content for platforms like Vocal and Medium.
There is a recognition that writing has become a job, which conflicts with the author's desire to avoid traditional employment.
The author expresses a need to reassert control over writing, to ensure it remains a passion rather than a burden.
The author plans to take a step back from writing to enjoy other aspects of life, such as nature, indicating a desire to rebalance the relationship with writing.

Writing And Me

We’re Kinda Frenemies

I’ve been struggling to come up with anything to write lately. My creative well seems to have run as dry as the ground underneath the scorching summer sun. And it pisses me off!

But fear not! My girl, KL Simmons unwittingly came to my rescue with her piece about her relationship with writing. Check it out:

Has Writing Been Your Best Friend, Worst Enemy Or A Mixture Of Both?

Another informal survey to which this inquiring mind is seeking sincere responses

medium.com

It made me think about my own relationship with writing and well, it’s complicated. We used to be best friends. But we’re also sort of enemies. It’s a love-hate thing. We’re frenemies.

It all started out so beautifully. I was writing before I could actually hold a pencil. Well, I was creating, and the actual writing came later. By the time I was 3 or 4, I was making up stories, songs, and little rhymes to entertain myself and the adults around me.

I learned very quickly that grown folks think a little girl who can make up and recite stories is adorable! It was a great way to get attention, treats, and even fistfuls of change for the ol’ piggy bank.

As I got older, writing was a constant companion. It became my best friend. It became my therapy.

As an angsty teenager with frizzy hair and chicken legs, I poured out my every hope, dream, frustration and unrequited love on paper. Volumes and volumes of melancholy, love sick poetry, all scribbled in black ink in coil notebooks that I hid between my mattress and box spring. It was always black ink. It had to be.

In that way, writing was, and still is my best friend. It’s how I sort out my feelings. It’s how I deal with the unpleasantness of depression, anxiety and PTSD. Oh, and anger. I can write a rant that would make Dennis Miller super jealous! For you young people, Dennis Miller was a comedian, well, he still is, I guess. He was on SNL when SNL was, ya know, good.

His big thing back in the 90s was the rant. In fact, he’d start them with, “I don’t want to get off on a rant here, but…” Oh, and he had KILLER hair, that counts!

When things are bad, the words flow out of me like water. When things are good … not so much.

I mean, I can and have written when I haven’t been miserable, but something has to really strike me. It could be anything, my dog, a sunset, the smell of sheets drying on a clothesline, but it has to be something.

I suppose you could say I’m a mood writer. When the mood hits, I write. I’m terribly undisciplined about it. No schedule, no set amount of words per day, nothing, just lightning bolt, words, done.

The write-by-mood method worked great for decades. Then, I got the crazy idea that maybe, just maybe, I could make a living from my little words.

Don’t blame me, I joined Vocal and won a handful of challenges with pretty tidy prize purses. It was the first time I’d ever gotten serious money from my babblings.

Then, I joined Medium and things went well right off the bat. Well, shit, now I was a writer, like a writer for real. it became my job.

And therein lay the problem. Suddenly, the girl who didn’t really want a job had one. The fun little cathartic hobby that sporadically won a prize became work.

Suddenly, the pressure to produce something, anything, every single day set in. The continual scrutiny of stats, the self-loathing when there’s just nothing to say are real. And writing became my enemy.

But it’s hard to hate the thing that feeds you, both figuratively and literally.

These are the first words I’ve written in a few days. Writing and I are now frenemies. We’re entangled in a strange co-dependent relationship that’s full of lots of good and lots of bad.

I need to put it back in its place. I need to follow my own advice. I vowed after I left the practice of law not to do anything for a living I didn’t love. So, now that I’ve said my piece, I’m going out to enjoy the sun and to see if the wild strawberries are ready. Today, writing will not be my master! It’s a better servant anyway.