Romanticization, Perfectionism, And Not Writing

Every day I add “write for 30 minutes” to my to-do list. Almost every day, I look at that task with annoyance and dread. A little nuisance, that I’ll just roll-over to the following day. Like shredding the mail or scheduling that optometry appointment. The failure to write nags at me. I can accomplish everything else on my list, but when the writing doesn’t get done, I feel a sense of moral failure. Am I still a writer?

Dear reader — I already know the answer to that.

You may be reading this and thinking, ok, girl! Just do it already!!!

I wish it was that simple. Being a writer is not a glamorous job, but we romanticize it to no end. From the Carrie Bradshaw memes to Thought Daughter content, there’s an insistence that writer and thinker is an entire identity and persona. And in so many ways it is.

Maybe that’s why writing is always at the bottom of my to-do list. I’m sick of performing writer and need to just be a writer. Just write, girl. I know.

I’m also so much more than writer. I sit at the intersections of journalist, cultural commentator, podcast producer, and entrepreneur. My mind is often running with countless projects, deadlines and ideas.

I love to ideate, I tell my closest friend.

I love to ideate, but I can’t sit down to write the thing I say I want to write. The writing feels so much bigger than me sometimes. There’s something in my brain that tells me, if you don’t write it when you say you’re going to, don’t bother doing it at all. When did I makeup that rule for myself? And why do I trick myself into believing that.

I recognize I need a better system than adding “write” to my to-do list. I need a writing circle. I need to body double with someone. I need to work through this task avoidance. I know the act of writing is not a task, but my brain believes it’s a task that’s going to humiliate me if I don’t do it perfectly.

It’s exhausting living this way, which is why I’m writing this on my Notes app during a flight to México. While my husband and I, drove to the airport at 4am, the idea for this essay came to me—to write about not writing.

Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation. The delirium that comes en la madrugada. My heavy heart, after experiencing another loss. Or that my spirit knows healing awaits me en la madre patria. Either way, I welcome the writing. To truly reject perfectionism, means allowing myself to write this from the fourth row of an airplane. Not waiting to be sitting at my desk or waiting to write at a cute little coffee shop in Guanajuato. Romanticization and perfectionism are holding hands and taunting me.

I read a 2008 essay by novelist Haruki Murakami, in The New Yorker, and he wrote, “Writers who are blessed with inborn talent can write easily, no matter what they do or don't do. Like water from a natural spring, the sentences just well up, and with little or no effort these writers can complete a work. Unfortunately, I don't fall into that category. I have to pound away at a rock with a chisel and dig out a deep hole before I can locate the source of my creativity.”

I’m mostly the latter. I’m the writer who needs to chisel away at a rock just to locate the will to write. But today, I’m the writer who’s letting her thoughts spill over.

My writing practice is still a work-in-progress. And while I may not be sitting down to write everyday, I still read voraciously. I read novels, essays, and articles. I enthusiastically receive and read articles from my favorite journalist group chat. I listen to three podcasts (minimum) a day. I co-write a newsletter for my podcast. I write scripts and outlines for the podcast.

I know one day soon, I’ll fully understand why writing is simultaneously my favorite and least favorite thing to do. Until then, I invite this creative energy to stay with me for a while.