Here’s the truth: I haven’t been writing recently.
Well, I guess that’s not entirely true. I have mostly maintained my morning pages, but I have been avoiding any kind of more crafted creative work. So in my mind, I haven’t been writing. I did jot down a number of notes/ideas/quick poems in my notes app, but then I let them stay there—no transfer to a “real” writing location (notebook/computer), so again, my mind says I’m not writing.
And if I’m not writing, my mind says I’m slacking.
For two weeks in July I was at the Sewanee Writers’ Conference in Tennessee. It was amazing and challenging and lovely and exhausting and inspiring and difficult. All the things. The days were packed with readings, craft lectures, workshops, more readings, social events, etc.
In talking with other writers there, the question often arose have you been writing since you’ve been here? And inevitably everyone answered no— with what time? I’m too tired. This is a lot to take in. I’m filling up to write later. I was glad I wasn’t the only one.
But for me, “later” took two weeks. Two weeks post conference to just feel human again, to not feel physically exhausted and emotionally raw. Two weeks to come back to myself (or at least start to). And it seems like the first thing I did on meeting myself again was judge her.
This week my therapist said I’m very critical of myself, which both rang true and took me aback a bit. I know I have the capacity for deep self compassion (something my migraines taught me), but when it comes to daily life, the hum and thrum of hours passing, how do I handle myself?
The truth? With an edge. With judgement. With comparison. With a measuring stick.
So when I put down the words I haven’t been writing I know it’s coming from that cutting part of me. The part that discounts the words I’ve tucked in my morning pages and my phone. That dismisses the fact that I was gone for two weeks and am allowed to take some time to breathe again. The part of me that still sees productivity as worthiness, that still judges myself for wanting this writing life. Who are you to want this, to pursue this, to deserve this? It says.
If someone came to me and said all I have said above, there would be no question about their “right” to this want, this pursuit, this life. Creative expression is intrinsic. It’s a part of us, all of us, in whatever form it takes. And despite how exclusive and elusive publishing seems to me right now, the writing life—the daily words on the page, the wanting to connect to others through language—I know that is open and inclusive.
If I were coaching myself, I’d say all writing counts. The pages, the notes, the ideas, the quick riffs, those are all tidbits of a life steeped in writing. To write does not always mean sitting at a desk for hours at a time or cranking out work to be submitted to journals or to be part of a manuscript. It can, but it doesn’t need to. And one type is not “better” or “worthier” than another.
If I were coaching myself, I’d say you are doing so well at capturing the little sparks, little ideas. And I’d ask myself, what do you need to feel good about the work you’re already doing?
So, what do I need?
I need to give the sparks room to breathe, to grow, to roar into flames or fizzle out.
I need to take this process seriously without taking myself or my work too seriously.
I need to see worth in my work even when there isn’t a paycheck involved.
Here’s the real truth: I have been writing, though it’s taken different forms. Here is another truth: I want to give my words breath, respect, light, and let them be in the world in whatever way they come.
And here is a truth for you (if you need to hear this today): all your words count, no matter if they are written on a computer, a notebook, or the back of an envelope. If you are called by this writing life, you belong in it.
We are all worthy of our words; our words are worthy of being in the world.
