A journal to get back into journals
On trying too hard
Update: In an attempt to write more “comprehensive” essays, I took a step back from my less formal journaling practices. However, having now struggled for several weeks to enjoy to writing essays, I’ve realized my step away from journaling was a mistake. This post is my return to journal-style entries.
Enjoy!
Yesterday was one of those days when I felt discouraged, merely because I felt no interest in doing anything in particular. I don’t know why those days come around. I don’t know what I do or fail to do in order to incite them. I didn’t sleep particularly well or poor the night before. Perhaps I didn’t have the best dinner, but it also wasn’t the worst.
If I had to guess—the reason for these days—I’d say it’s that I lose sight of what it is I’m after. Instead of working with intention, aware of my mission, I’ve been going through the motions . . . Or could it be that I’ve been focusing too much on the end I was after, and have stopped enjoying my creative time? That may be it, too. I’ve made a great push recently in my head to get my work out there. I’m losing patience with the process.
Part of it is that I finally want to be recognized as a writer, and part of it is that I want money, although that part of my problem will soon be solved at least in part by this life insurance gig. And another part of it is that I finally want to feel as though I’ve finished some very important or good pieces.
You see, I find myself aggravated sometimes because I’ve been writing practically every day now for I don’t know how many months and years, but haven’t got a whole lot of final products to show. Each morning, especially recently, I start anew. Instead of building forward from a previous piece, I commence a different project every day. And I don’t always publish these pieces. And so I have, over time, compiled a library of unfinished pieces . . . Loops yet to be closed.
And when I decide I should put some time toward editing a piece so it is presentable and may be published, I find myself unable to move forward, taking no pleasure in the editing process.
I suspect this is because I’ve been reading Walden on and off for a while, and I really appreciate Thoreau’s style because it feels so pure . . . I struggle to envision him editing much, in part due to the nature of his style, but also because he must have written it all by hand.
And so, I’ve now arrived at this conundrum, which is that my writing pedagogy lies more in favor of writing than editing—a ratio in opposite weight to today’s writing standards.
I’m still too insecure to publish without editing.
Last night, I managed to take some pressure off my shoulders by realizing that it is not the case that I will only ever be successful if I follow the standards set forth by certain “online writers” of the day—that it is perfectly okay to carve my own path and do as I so please and ignore all the rules if I find, as I have, that those rules aren’t for me.
If I am in a season of writing, and don’t find much desire to edit, then that’s quite alright.
It is wise to be happy and unwise to be unhappy. If I do not enjoy my writing process, it is almost always because I’m imposing a pressure to create in a certain way, a way in which I think I’m supposed to operate. Recently, I’ve enjoyed writing a lot, and not at all enjoyed editing. And so I’ve just written a lot.
I will go a certain period with being okay with just writing. And then comes one day, after having written a lot and having published nothing, when I feel the need to try and publish. And so I crack open a piece I previously put together and attempt to smear some lipstick on the beast so it may appear on stage without scaring the audience. This, I do not enjoy so much. This, I find, makes me unwise.
I hardly find much more fulfilling than going deep in a single solitary focused effort, with a cup of coffee beside me and the sun not so very high in the sky.
I’m happy with how I dealt with my overwhelm yesterday. It is much better than how I used to respond to any sort of purposeful threat. Having recognized my inability to move forward, I took a step back.
It’s not so easy for me to be “unproductive” sometimes. I think that’s why it’s very important I take intentional steps to be lazy.
There will always be some days when you don’t feel as well as you’d like, for no apparent reason whatsoever. The only correlation I find between those sorts of days and my habits is, as I said, in my perception . . . Or the degree of pressure I put on myself. Whenever I feel pressed, the only way I’ll move forward is by taking a step back. And what’s more important about this step back is ensuring I’m aware of my misstep . . . That by putting too much pressure on myself, I’ve lost sight of what life is all about and am working against my aim.
There is a way to go about life that makes it so much more enjoyable. You know when you’re on it, too, because it feels like you’re riding a wave. And it is almost always effortless. It’s not when you grab on to the right thing but when you let go of everything.
It’s hard not to try and force words. Even right now, in these past few paragraphs, I’ve been doing it. It’s like something that’s been beaten into me over time. I can’t stop myself sometimes. It is a way of life that’s become reflected in my writing. I’m not so sure how perceptible it is to someone who’s reading, but there are times when my writing just pours out of me like a pristine spring waterfall.
It’s interesting to me how this can all happen in one day, indeed, in the same half an hour. In one instance, I can be on a roll, cranking out one poetic sentiment after the other, and in another, I lose sight altogether of the good life, having let my ego take control and attempt to chase some end that will always avoid me.
I really don’t know how I’ll ever be a writer because I see no way to enjoy this if I’ve got to do more than let the Muse pour through me. I guess that’s all I really should be doing. I’ve just got to let go. No need to try with anything. The grass ain’t greener on the other side.
Why should I try? Is effort so natural a thing? I don’t know. It seems to me a bear hunts, a fish swims, and a bird constructs whenever they so please.
Why have we come to try so hard? Why have I come to try so hard? This effort really is killing me.
Let go.
It really is an art, one that I’ve not mastered. There are some people out there, I must admit, that I don’t like so much, who’ve mastered the art of letting go. They don’t give a rat’s ass about anything. Their mind lies on one thing and one thing alone: themselves. That’s it. That’s all there is to their life. And for some reason—though I’m not sure if I’m deceived by appearance or if my intuition is correct—they seem to live rather stress-free lives. It matters not what they put in their body, nor how well they take care of it, nor how much effort they put into relationships.
They have a ball, seeming to know that life will one day come to an end and that, for this reason, they might as well do as much of what they want, regardless of the consequences. At such a young age, this way of life is enticing, and the consequences aren’t so clear. And I think there is a validity to it in some way, and I think their is a fault to the way I go about things sometimes.