live fuller, write worse
making the most of feeling stuck
“I’d like to stop feeling like a cog in the machine,” I pause, annoyed with the sound of my voice, realizing I sound more ungrateful than frustrated, “If that makes sense, of course.”1
Seated between an established translator and a biology researcher with dozens of publications under her belt at a writing workshop in Amsterdam, I’m a little nervous, cross-legged in my best proper writer monochrome outfit today. Black coat, tight dress, head empty. That was my simple answer to the host’s not exactly simple ‘Why are you here today?’ question. I’d signed up for the workshop weeks ago in hopes it would help me get unstuck and fill me with ideas through a knowledge feeding tube, and now I’m committed to attending for 3 whole weekends, be it by some benevolent higher power or by the already-paid-for-this incentive. Over the past few months, I’ve been struggling with the fact that I used to write better and with more whimsy when no one was watching. It’s not the same anymore. There’s a knot in the chest, and something swooshing in the brain that refuses to come out until I’m left all alone, and sometimes tinnitus, too. I also found I’m not the type of person who works better under pressure or with a schedule. What a letdown.
I’m stuck, creatively, and life keeps rushing, and maybe that’s why I find myself in a room surrounded by researchers, professionals, and thinkers far wiser than me, doing the kind of writing that, how I see it, is important and tangible. Their process of turning thoughts into nouns and verbs has a Real Purpose. Unlike mine. I’m a scribbler. I scribble things, sometimes good, sometimes bad, mostly trivial. And it’s not about impostor syndrome; that tends to go away once you hit the prized 10k subscriber mark2. You see, my creativity dwindles when life gets a little louder, demanding to be lived, not thought about or processed quietly. This was meant to be my year of working hard and plotting wisely and getting laid like there’s no tomorrow, and while I’m doing all of the above —sorry losers and haters3— I didn’t know such ambition and vivre would come prepackaged with feeling so uninspired about my craft. The paradox of creative work: the fullness of life that inspires and informs it can only be turned to something meaningful on the comedown, in the quieter moments that remain out of reach when everything is so full and bursting and unstoppable. I’m sorry I can’t write — I’m busy! Living! Woe is me and fuck my life.
All I think about is the many ways of squeezing out the very last drops of finite thinking juice into my work, self-promotion, a trajectory un certain regard. I’m actually not overthinking: we’re living in unprecedented times where the only requirement is that you keep going. Pivot, bitch, I don’t care. Make stuff. Content is a carton of milk, not Pinot Noir, and your brevity is not in wit’s favor, it’s just you not knowing what to say, getting lost in your hollow tin head. Sometimes a vulgar phrase or two come out, but they’re more yawn-inducing than applause-inspiring. Moulding spectacles from scratch in hopes of never getting tired. Creativity is to be continuously reiterated, outdoing itself every step of the way, a Truman Show ladder up into the sky with no limit or threshold. Every triumph of mine is Business As Usual, but every failure is the end of the world. It’s ridiculous that I’ve never given gratitude a chance to sit next to me, feel the heat of the good work, relish in its light — the conveyor belt keeps moving regardless of what I put out. Retention, a marketing term that has made its way into every creative person’s mind, is a flesh-eating parasite chipping away at your insides because you’ll be forgotten unless you’re in a constant state of production. It doesn’t help that there’s a surge of great writing and I’m biting my nails to the bone every time I come across somebody doing things with more depth and bravado than I ever could. I’m iron deficient, I don’t have the stamina you guys are equipped with.
“Well, what makes you feel like a cog in the machine?” The host interrupts my drifting into the unknown.
Winning myself a little time for a non-cliche answer. Quickly. Throat clearing. “Uh, I don’t know. To me, there’s a clear distinction between living and writing about it. It’s like a wall. Sometimes I can do both. I try, at least. Other times I can’t. If I push through it, it’s shit and feels like I’m writing out of fear or obligation. When too much is happening, I don’t have time to sit down and let the words speak. But no one’s gonna sit down and write for me. Uh. I think, like, I just need to learn to leave myself alone.”
Everyone in the room is nodding to the rhythm of my exhaustion. I knew they would see a bit of themselves in it. The one truth remains, perception above honesty.
“That’s what we’re here for. We’ll explore this over the next two sessions.”
“Amazing. Cool.” I’m sort of satisfied. I guess.
We’re given three thoughtful prompts for an automatic writing exercise. Pen to paper, seven minutes of non-stop stream of consciousness. It’s like photosynthesis. Notions arrive to me, and I’m no writer — just a vessel for something ordinary or celestial or in between. The vessel that makes things good. I write beautifully long as the product doesn’t face evaluation.
***
The host brews an infusion blend and pours it for us gently. A parting gift. Raspberry leaf, dandelion, nettle, some other herbs. The plant choice is intentional, she shares; a research project was once led by herbalist Lynn Shore to figure out which plants growing within Amsterdam can be safely foraged and which are too toxic for consumption due to their absorption of pollutants, harmful chemicals, and other urban contaminants. Upon extensive research, the plant they found to be with the lowest level of absorption (safe to consume even if it grew in the dirtiest conditions) was stinging nettle. It remained clean no matter what. It didn’t care what was around it — it just kept growing, virgin-like. Minding its business, unbothered, the city grind never touched its ego or purpose. Won’t consume anything beyond what it truly needs to thrive. A plant with a harsh reputation and no pretty flowers to make up for it, but it doesn’t care what you think because it won’t absorb any external validation anyway, so it’s kind of cooler than any other plant. Nettle doesn’t know a thing about content. Or retention.
I’ve been the opposite of nettle. Letting everything flood my brain against creation, leaving ozone holes in my interior. Compass-shifting based on what’s around me with no regard for what’s fermenting within. Overthinking to unbearable temperatures. Letting myself live a little because I want to, then get mad for not processing enough, then spiral. Cutting the corners with anxiety meds and dopamine exorcism to come out bolder, braver, smarter, hotter, whatever. I read between the lines in different languages and margins but can’t hear the sound of my own mind. “We should all be more like nettle” is the last phrase I write down before I click the pen shut and go back to my life.
insert the joke about women saying ‘if that makes sense’ when it does, in fact, make sense
i hope you know how grateful i actually am. self-deprecation is just built into me. i love u
this cuts so deeply. i’m in awe of you
you are my favorite writer on planet earth