Shall we write?
It’s been a long time since I posted here. Like six years, wow. I never meant for it to be this long, but, you know, life and procrastination… Anyway, I wrote some stuff about writing, and it seems like a suitable “comeback post”, so here we go, again…
Recently, my partner asked me if I enjoy writing. He pointed out that I had been talking about it as if it were a chore instead of something I enjoy.
And although he then went all therapist on me and asked me if I could point out “how many negative words I used while talking about writing” and that perhaps it would be good for me to “keep a positive outlook” — I hate when he goes all zen and positive vibes as if it was that simple, anyway that’s for another day — he had a point, and touched a nerve.
Do I enjoy writing? Well, I’m writing now, so perhaps here’s my answer, or perhaps that just leads to another question: why do I write? Why do I claim I like writing or even that I’m a writer? If I’m absolutely honest, I don’t feel comfortable with the latter. Never have. How can I say I’m a writer when I don’t write that much? I probably write more than the average person, but do I write enough? I spend more time working out than writing, according to my gym app stats…
There’s a lot to unpack here, of course, because what does make someone a writer? Yeah, I’m getting philosophical now, but perhaps I am looking at it through the overwhelming lens of success and how we measure that success. And in a world where success is closely linked to economic value and public recognition, well, I’m clearly failing.
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And perhaps that’s my downfall. Perhaps, that’s what is taking the enjoyment out of writing, adding that capitalist perspective where time is money: there must be an outcome, a goal accomplished, a bloody KPI, if you like. Otherwise, what a fucking waste of time.
But why do I identify with this figure of the writer? I love stories, and c’mon, isn’t that a cool thing to say: “I’m a Writer”, yeah, with capital double-U. We can all agree it’s cool. It has that romantic flare, the mystery, the moodiness, the (ironically) figure of a few words, but oh my, such great words! The drama, the drugs, the solitary soul, the poet, the artiste! I could go on, but in essence, if you are an introvert with social anxiety, overwhelmed by human interaction, but with an endless internal monologue, calling yourself a writer is like having superpowers.
Also, my overbearing mother, who can’t help but live her best life through her two daughters’ potential future, has been planting the idea that I should write something since… I can’t even remember when that started. So it’s all her fault.
I am joking, but like all jokes, there’s some truth to it. How those expectations placed upon us can create a sense of identity that we carry deep, and then, when unfulfilled, are the cause of a massive existential crisis: who the fuck am I? If we go for the classic “what do you do?” Well, I work in Digital and IT, how creative. Not as cool as calling myself a writer, right? Although some would say I have superpowers: the power of passwords, permissions and knowing when to unplug your device and restart it, but really, try turning it off and on yourself, and let me be.
And linked to this identity, there’s also the fact that I don’t write in my native language, although after more than ten years living in England, I probably do. Because, since I don’t doubt myself enough, as the natural overthinker and slightly pessimist I am, let’s add another layer to it. Yeah, like an onion: they have layers and make me cry.
So, of course, there’s the inevitable thought: shouldn’t I be writing in Spanish? Am I limiting myself because I choose to write in a language that’s not mine (English), although I speak and read it more than Spanish? Is the little capitalist in me thinking you should write in the language of the Empire to access the international market?
Have I mentioned I overthink?
So here I am, all these questions, not many answers, but about two pages of me rambling on about my hopes and fears and that sort of crap, on a Saturday evening, instead of hitting the pub and drowning my sorrows in beer. Have I enjoyed myself? Actually, I have. So I guess that’s a positive.
