WHY WE DO WHAT WE DO

Writing is Hard but Not Writing is Harder

Because I can’t picture existing without it

One word. Two words. Just put one step after another. A paragraph. Five sentences? Can’t look back now.

Most nights when I sit down to write, I’m chanting these words in my head. I’ve considered tying my right hand, so it can’t hit the delete button. After some aggravating back and forth, I set a timer on Google for thirty minutes.

Sometimes the cursor taunts me, on others the words flow. I can rarely predict my process, as it’s different each time. But I invariably feel better.

Imagine going through your life without listening to music. As if you grew up in a Footloose-style universe, and weren't allowed to follow your heart.

Then one day you do, and all the misshapen gears click into place.

I wrote in a diary when I was a teenager, which I kept under lock and key. I had a 100-word story published in a local newspaper and edited my high-school literary magazine for one year because no one wanted the position.

An impulsive internship led to me writing content for a website. The first company I worked for didn’t have a marketing department when I started, so they asked me to write copy. A few social media posts here and there.

There were more, blogs, interviews, slides, and policy documents.

But none of it made me feel good. Because none of it mattered.

When my first story came to life in May 2019, I had an indescribable attachment to it. I wanted to shout from the rooftops — I did it, it’s mine.

I had to slow down my thoughts because I was typing and it was like wearing a dress in your size for the first time after spending years squeezing into smaller ones. Like I was watching a YouTube video at 1.0x speed.

It was utterly unbelievable that I’d spent twenty-eight years without this rush to my brain. Because this high? It was better than a designer drug.

But when the first waves of anxiety hit, my body’s response was to run.

I questioned if things were supposed to be this hard and if I could ever cope with rejection. I thought about quitting at least once a week, without fail.

Maybe I needed to build my skills, maybe I needed to be stronger.

Every time I took a break and came back to it, the words “I can’t write, I can’t write” click-clacked in my mind like high heels on cobblestones. I felt like I was starting all over again, only this time I could see my bleak future.

And I wondered if it’ll ever get easier.

Somewhere along the way, this dance became familiar. I started asking myself if I would still write if it meant putting myself through this grind.

And I never answered no.

A little while ago, Richard Steele (an extraordinarily gifted writer) shared these lines with me during one of our comment conversations:

“I’ve always liked the meme that states art is at the intersection of two circles: A Slightly Unhealthy Ego and Crippling Self-Doubt.”

It might be a meme, but for me, truer words have never been spoken.

At first glance, almost as a reflex, I’ll tell you that I have got the second part in spades but none of the first. Upon further thought, I realized I have both. I call myself an artist. And I want my writing to exist in the world.

My process is brutal, but I’ll gladly pay the price.

As some of you may know, I took a break at the end of September, around the time our earnings took a nosedive. I was terribly sad. I was angry, but more at myself for letting a platform get in the way of my love for writing.

I didn’t last two days.

There was a gap in my publishing schedule, but I wrote three drafts, and they were some of my best. Which reminded me of some buried reasons.

I write for myself. I write so I can feel. I write to create change.

When I’m not writing or thinking about it, I act like a ghoul.

I encounter the world in black and white, and everything feels too fast and too slow at the same time. I’m drifting in and out of reality, barely holding on to it. There’s so much to do, but all I feel like doing is going back to bed.

My thoughts are jumbled like a broken cassette tape.

But, put me in front of a blank page, and the words come out. They become full sentences, which lead to more, finally forming a story. I relax and sigh.

I can breathe again. Everything at this moment makes sense to me.

In the past couple of years, I’ve asked “why” a lot. Writing, for most of us, isn’t an externally rewarding choice. It doesn’t lead to money and fame. We aren’t adulated by millions, making us come back to create more content.

I’ve made so many unconventional choices, it’s not even funny. From not picking a niche to inconsistency or refusing to offer valuable takeaways.

An objectively satisfactory answer doesn’t exist. Then why do it?

From the moment I wake up, and in all my available free time, it’s all I can think about. I dream about it at night. It’s my obsession, my air, my pain.

I write because I can.

Credits and Inspirations:

Linking a few stories by other writers that spoke to me at a time of need, and I sincerely hope it does the same for you. Save them for a rainy day.

Philip Ogley talks about recurring post-publishing fear and anxiety.

DJ Hopkins reminds us that someone will always be better than you. But that doesn’t mean you stop creating.

Mike Knittel shares how he became a writer with refreshing honesty.