Journal Entry: Why Write At All?

That’s what my brain throws at me most days.

Why write? You like the idea of being a writer more than you like writing. You’re not that good at it anyway. You’re just going to not finish whatever it is you start. And it’s going to suck. You don’t even have an idea of what you want to write. I need a big chunk of uninterrupted time. But I have so much to do at work on the computer, and then when I get home, the last thing I want to do is stare at a computer screen (as I pull out my smartphone and literally waste hours of my life checking updates, statues and random pics that enrich my life in no way because it’s so much easier to do nothing than something that might be fulfilling or of value). blah, blah, bladeefuckingdah.

That shit. That shit right there. That’s my brain. Every minute of every day. Doesn’t necessarily have to be about writing, mind you. Pretty much everything in my life gets fed to my mental woodchipper the same way.

I know, after nearly two years of ACT therapy, that the bullshit in your head is your worst enemy. And my life is fundamentally better by several orders of magnitude than it was when I started.

And still I struggle. I’m using writing as a means of discussing this because on a level of importance to me, it’s way up there at the top along with my relationships with my beautiful wife and daughter.

But I’m coming around to the idea that most obstacles in life are there because we put them there ourselves. Fill in the blank with whatever you want. Working out. Painting. Helping others. Anything you know you should be doing but aren’t.

Mine’s writing, which is as simple as typing with passable subject/verb agreement. I mean, what’s so hard about it, right? Just fucking write. At a basic level, it’s that easy. Open a blank doc, get out a clean sheet of paper, unwrap a new Moleskine (they’re my favorite), and open the thought spigot.

Only it also isn’t. Not when you have a head full of bullshit (and a lot of us d0). The underlying reason is some sort of fear, and the voice of fear is so loud in your head you can’t even hear it anymore, don’t recognize what it is. It’s machine code. It’s mental autopilot.

And it’s bullshit. It isn’t real. Nothing in your head is real. It’s just thoughts. They have no substance. You can’t interact with them physically. How does something with no form, no gravity, no actual presence control you so totally?

Because you’re not paying attention. You’re not here. You’re not now. You’re not dealing with what is.

I started typing this because I read a column by a sports blogger I follow about how he lost his unborn daughter at week 36 of the pregnancy. Stillborn. Real. It happened.

And there he was blogging about it. Moving forward. Dealing with his life head-on.

My gut reaction was to cry, because the situation could’ve happened to my wife and I when our daughter was born at week 36 of the pregnancy, weighing just over four pounds. Gut punch number one.

But then I recognized the strength of that guy, to hold it together, do what he needed to do, and even have perspective on it while it was happening.

If he can do that, I can make myself throw some words on a blog. And then maybe I can pound out some more in the form of a short story. And maybe I can then learn to quit beating myself up for being afraid to fail, and let myself try and learn. Maybe I can let me off the hook just a bit.

Because beating yourself up for your failings isn’t productive. It does no good.

There’s only now. There’s only forward.