Understanding why I avoided writing about myself
There are moments when a quiet revelation is stirring within, as you stare out into the vastness of space. About a month ago, before the quarantine, my partner was driving to the market. For the first time, I was able to describe my inner turmoil. “I think I’ve been placing inopportune activities in front of me to avoid writing,” I told my partner. I may have vaguely thought about this before, perhaps while attempting to sleep. It may have appeared in my journal in another version. But now I vocalized it to someone else and understood it as something real instead of a thought within a daydream. I had been placing inopportune activities into my life, so as to avoid sitting down for hours to write about my thoughts and experiences.
I have done a number of things to prevent myself from writing, some worthwhile, others questionable. Some of these moments were necessary, but others were obstacles, I purposely put in the foreground, so as to create a distraction. I tried creating legitimate excuses, as to why I wasn’t writing, perhaps done a subconscious level, masked with “a need to survive” in the various cities I was living. It always appeared that my writing was being put on hold. I often gave into the practical side of life, the one that values a stable income, so I could afford nice things, objects and places, to show my friends I was not a total mess.
During that car ride, my partner was probably not ready for this conversation. I mentioned, that for a while now, I had been doing things that weren’t inherently me. Instead, they had emanated from a feeling of being forced into a situation or an acquiescence to comfort and instant gratification. In some respect, some of my past jobs weren’t inherently me. It’s true I wanted to travel, but perhaps not completely abandon the kind of writing I wanted to do. Some of my past decisions felt forced or contrived. They were put into motion by limitations I created, and perhaps limitations that existed because of societal pressures or my own economic status. I wonder just how much I sabotaged myself these last couple of years, by getting into activities that distracted me, and took me away from writing.
On those days, one feels empty without being able to reflect and contemplate. There’s no time to pause; there’s only time to chase fleeting sensations.
There are societal pressures one follows, because the perception is that it will bring you happiness, like having a 9 to 5 job, buying a car, or having an apartment, but that happiness is temporary and usually not meaningful. I knew something was tugging at me for years, but I chose to ignore it, because I could make it disappear with a drink, hanging out with friends, traveling, working in places that caused stress. The years I spent in relationships with men was also days and months taken away from writing. I gave up my hours too easily, albeit I learned from these relationships, but I didn’t always feel emotionally involved. Sometimes, I was committed to a moment that wasn’t of my making, those that had been adopted. Even if something real had emerged, I was simply living though days, and not reflecting about them. To the world I was living, but to me, I was slowly fading away.
When you follow the regular patterns of a work day, commuting to the office and getting home late, the days blend into each other. I go back to the words of Willa Cather when she worked at McClure’s Magazine: “Of course there are interesting people and interesting things in the day’s work, but it’s all like going round the world in a railway train and never getting off to see anything closer.” On those days, one feels empty without being able to reflect and contemplate. There’s no time to pause; there’s only time to chase fleeting sensations. “It’s so foolish to live (which is always trouble enough) and not to save your soul. It’s so foolish to lose your real pleasures for the supposed pleasures of the chase — or of the stock exchange,” Willa wrote in a letter to her friend and mentor, the writer Sarah Jewett.
During my early 20s, I spent nights in between states of debauchery for various reasons: brewery outings, birthday gatherings, dancing in clubs, concerts, and others. They provided for a good laugh the next morning, but often, I was left piecing together foggy scenes that made me recoil. I used alcohol to smooth over awkward situations, or simply to pass the time, or to make it palatable when I didn’t want to present. I spent mornings feeling lazy, irritable and depressed, without much energy to be productive. Some part of me acknowledged there was no use in writing for long hours, when I could give my hours to reveling through the midnight hour. There was a version of me that would buy a bottle of red wine to drink at home, telling myself as I walked through the aisles, that it would motivate me to write. By the time I finished the bottle, I was too incoherent to stay up, but at least the wine quality would not suffer, sitting idly in the fridge. I was filling myself with a false sense of completeness instead of searching for genuine fulfillment, albeit from harder to reach places. As Annie Dillard wrote, In the Writing Life, “The life of sensation is the life of greed; it requires more and more.”
I suspect, I also avoided writing, since it would mean long hours of being in my head dealing with contradiction. As soon as I started not everything would magically fall into place. The process of writing is about giving up some control and seeing where an idea can go. The other day, I was drawing a bird, which I rarely do these days, but in that moment I faced awkward lines and imperfections. When you let yourself venture into the unknown with nothing more than an idea, it’s possible to find strength through the process. With practice, writing becomes less about imperfections and more about the process.
We will use any distraction to sooth our fears and deal with the unknown, by pushing it for a future date.
The other side of the coin, is that even if there are long stretches of time to write, one doesn’t necessarily do so, because often it’s the struggle that keeps you motivated; it’s the time restraints (you do more with less). In Willa’s letter to her mentor, she goes on to say, “Still, I don’t think that my pen would ever travel very fast, even along smooth roads.” Leading a life of comfort doesn’t always translate to interesting stories and strictly following the artistic route isn’t always the most rewarding. When you don’t have to worry about getting to work on time or paying rent, the tendency is give into other distractions.
To be fair, some distractions have the power to create ideas, which in turn create stories that have meaning. Without even realizing it, the myriad of distractions in life turn into layers that make a story. Many people feel guilty when they are visited by the “distraction bunny,” but nowadays, it’s easy to procrastinate online, especially with the endless streaming channels and social media apps. Social media allows us to find easy ways to connect and stay present, but it’s doesn’t necessarily mean you’re learning something significant. I’ve come to terms with procrastinating as a natural human behavior. We believe that time is infinite. We will use any distraction to sooth our fears and deal with the unknown, by pushing it for a future date.
Forgiving myself is the best approach to moving from my guilt about procrastinating. There’s value is giving myself the space to linger in other activities and see what can be learned, especially if they allow me to grow as an artist. Before the quarantine came upon us, I started picking my distractions with more intent by getting involved in improv, sketch comedy, rock climbing, meditation, singing, language learning and drawing birds. I’ve carried those things to the quarantine by adding dance lessons. A friend recently told me, “this is a time to give one’s self a lot of grace,” and I remind myself every time I feel guilty. When looking at the past retrospectively, one is able to analyze it more closely and put each decision under a microscope, but when you’re living that reality in that moment, it’s a different world altogether. It’s not strange to question some of your life choices and see if they were inherently born out of your independent conclusions.
Nothing that was happening outside the car mattered. Everything seem to fade and topple over onto the indistinguishable gray buildings.
In the past, I would have rather succumb to a short-term pleasure, an easy way out, so as to leave the person I am behind. I’m using these days at home to take a pause and reflect through writing. It’s harder to depend on yourself to find stories, because it forces you to go beyond the traditional routes, where most of the time you’re stuck doing mindless work. Being locked from the outside world has allowed me to find a space to be present. Similarly, others are acknowledging their dissatisfaction with the constant rhythm of work and lack of creativity in their usual workplace. This is a time to bring into focus: the difference between presence and productivity.
I only spoke about a few of these elements on that car ride, but vocalizing even a few words on the subject of avoidance, was something I needed to do. I was staring at the road, as if talking above the clouds, away from the car. “I don’t feel like any of these choices were inherently me, and yet I find myself here.” Nothing that was happening outside the car mattered. Everything seem to fade and topple over onto the indistinguishable gray buildings. I was felt alone saying these words. My partner felt far away, like I left him back at the house, and he only heard me in passing. “At least you know now…it’s good you know that now,” he said.
