Cringe, Contradiction and Copious Self-doubt - The Building Blocks of a Writer
In lieu of the story I meant to write
Being a writer can feel like an inherently contradictory existence. One day, you finish a draft, high off the dopamine of your own brilliance, marvelling at the artistry, the untethered genius that has just spilt from the depths of your soul onto the page. A mere week later, reviewing those pages produces nothing but gut-wrenching cringe. Reading through gaps in your fingers, eyes desperately searching for a semblance of the splendour you once saw in them.
This happened to me recently. Beginning the edit on something I wrote transported me back into my childhood. Maths homework (which may as well have been rocket science) stained with tears born from a brain numbed by confusion. Utterly devoid of confidence.
Shifting between a diehard fan and the snootiest critic of your writing becomes quickly tiresome. And confusing. Hard to know which voice is truthful. Which to listen to.
The fangirl could simply be delusional. Her reverence, that of a doting mother fawning over her daughter’s mediocre doodles. Desire clouding reality.
It is also not impossible that the critic slanders, with insidious lies, to sabotage. Her nagging voice, bellowing our shortcomings with deafening conviction, the internalisation of a naysayer, haunting us from our past.
I have yet to meet a writer, or artist of any kind, for that matter, who has not felt the plague of Imposter Syndrome.
Symptoms include:
Crushing self-doubt. Life-threatening fear. Brutal self-talk. Like, extremely brutal. Procrastination. Desperation. Spiralling. The aforementioned gut-wrenching cringe. Shudders cascading from head to toes. More procrastination. Confusion. Tears.
That’s just me, though. The experience, like everything, is subjective.
A few things seem to spark this in me.
Too. Much. Noise.
Too much advice. The rise in AI.
Will people even read human writing anymore?
External validation. Making yourself marketable. Write like this. For them. An imaginary audience. Impossible to impress. Fictitious judgments, quickly internalised. Nattering criticisms. Spitting out comparisons. The chorus of disapproving commentary drowns out your own voice. Start second-guessing every word. Overthinking. It becomes transactional. No longer creative. No longer self-expression. No longer experimental, brave or curious. The doomful settling of writer’s block, a cape of shame, around your shoulders.
The remedy?
Refine what matters to you, drop everything else. Focus on the ideas that spark your curiosity. Write. Write more. Write badly. Write the bad to get to the good. Write only for yourself. Keep learning. Becoming better is a gift. Not a punishment.
Deviation from initial vision
When the work begins to take on a life of its own. You, the creator, are at the whim of the story. No longer in control. A beautiful feeling. When you can let go. Let it flow. That’s the sauce. The peak. The pinnacle of creativity.
Sometimes, however, relinquishing control can be difficult. You resist the flow because it takes you down a path not outlined. Clinging to the initial spark with a determined grip. Stubbornly committed to a story that is not the one that needs to be told. Holding onto a boulder, about to topple off a mountain, whilst wearing a parachute.
The remedy?
Submit. Release control. Write to understand the story. The world. The character. Not to control them. Strive for expression, not perfection.
Easy as that, right?
Thinking of art as a representation of life is helpful. For me, at least. Sometimes, a mere week of trudging through life’s ordeals can deliver a new perspective. Illuminate a path previously concealed by a lack of experience. It often feels like this results in endlessly extended finish lines, inescapable editing loops. Frustrating, for sure. Not necessarily a bad thing, though. More colour to your story. More life in your world. Evidence of growth.
Life is messy. So why can’t art be messy too?
That’s the contradiction. You love it, you hate it. You’re brilliant, you’re awful. You want to give up, but you simply cannot.
That is the essence of art, and also maybe the essence of life.
So (and this is mostly me talking to myself), get over it. Move on. Keep going.
The way you went not just real but relatable makes your writing interesting.
Thank you for putting this out.
I so needed this today. Thank you for saying out loud what’s been swirling around in my mind.🙏