A problematic relationship with writing

a minute to reflect

I tell people I like to write and they usually smile– probably thinking to themselves: “oh– that’s great! She keeps her mind active and her friends entertained,” or whatever.

Writing is supposed to be one of those things that’s objectively good for you– like running or knitting or vegetables. But running without eating isn’t a healthy case. Knitting yourself into sleep deprivation is controversial. And apparently if you eat too much broccoli, you’re at risk of excessive gas, bloating, or diarrhea. Anythingggg can be detrimental if you’re creative enough.

So on a concerningly warm January evening, why not investigate the negative impact that writing has had on my life?

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Escapism as a blessing and a curse

I’ve mentioned this before– I’m not the greatest at regularly journaling (working on that!), but there was a point in my life where I never skipped a day.

When I was a kid I used to journal in one of those little magnetic diaries– probably from FiveBelow. I’d write one real entry and one fake one.

I think I was being a little bit avoidant. On bleak days, I would write about my fake farm or my fake fashion show or my fake trip to outer space instead. I know— fantasy doesn’t necessarily mean avoidance. If anything, it can amplify truths— I know. But this was supposed to be a journal. And mixing lies into my daily happenings was cute but a little bit detached.

At best– my little kid creativity might’ve enhanced my little kid reality. I’d like to think if a child psychologist and an English major teamed up they could pull some hard truths from some of those entries. But that’s just me being nice about it.

At worst, I created stress for myself that was completely unnecessary. I’d head downstairs for dinner with a headache over completely nonexistent battles.

Of my problematic relationships with writing, this one is definitely the tamest. At a young age, it kept me writing consistently and voraciously which is great because writing is great for you.

Attention-seeking, overstepping, and being plain old mean and nasty

I used to write fan fictions about– like – actual people or whatever. It is probably one of the darkest ways I’ve ever put pen to paper and to this day I’m sorry for it.

No, I didn’t change the names. Yes, they were 100% based in reality. Yes, they were drama. No– thank god– I didn’t publish or share them. That’s the only thing separating this tidbit from tragedy.

In my defense, I told all the characters – oops I meant people – involved about what I was doing– once I was done– when it was too late for them to ask me to stop. I’d say “Hey is it okay I wrote three pages about you auditioning for a play and getting rejected,” as if I hadn’t already done it– as if I wasn’t already holding three complete pages in my hand.

And I didn’t even see a problem with it. I thought I was qualified to say whatever I wanted because duh– I was writing– and that’s a good thing to do– right? I could pluck whatever I wanted from my mind and spew it out into the world with zero repercussions. Right?

Wrong. But at least it was a little bit funny.

I liked the idea that I was dissecting the world. I liked that I could look down at three proud complete pages that I mla formatted for some reason. I wasn’t doing any real thinking– just making my subconscious the world’s burden. And that was a little bit reckless.

I think there are situations where people want to be a writer but don’t actually care that much about writing. They don’t care about words, their weight, or how to deliver a message. They don’t care to learn. They just want to be writers.

Writing bad poetry because I was supposed to be a poet

I thought writing needed to look a certain way. I threw my entire lexicon in the trash and leaned darker and drearier and lacier and it stressed me out so badly. But I thought I was doing great since I looked the part…

Only I didn’t look the part– I looked a hot mess:

[Yes it’s real. They’re all real. I never delete things.]

Ideally, writing says something and I had nothing to say. I overthought myself into a tangle.

Stuck, I kept wondering what wouldn’t click in my brain. Humbled, I kept my thoughts to myself.

I decided that I wasn’t cut out to write about respectable things— the springtime or sheds or flowers or doves or tea or mysterious shopkeepers with glasses.

Sharing with the class

This came right after the NeedsToBeaPoet phase– a hard pivot towards my actual voice that leaned a little bit too honest. I hated gatekeeping so much, I hyper-embraced a low-barrier platform. I began an (ongoing) era of rampant twitterdepicting opinions too profound — too otherworldly — to address in regular conversation:

It alleviated my fear of sharing my work to a perfect extent– and then it kept going. Thankfully now, I’m mature enough to handle it.

You have no idea how many times I’ve received texts from confused mutuals asking if everything is okay, if I can please explain, or why would I tweet such a thing.

I feel guilty sometimes– like I’m desecrating words by throwing them out into the void so quickly. While baseless snippiness is exhilarating, some thoughts simply need to be built on.

I wonder how many essays I would’ve written if I had taken a second to sit with my fleeting thoughts. I guess it’s not too late.

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I’m not sure why I felt compelled to write this.

Probably the same reason I decided to write about flying cars in my elementary school journal or tweet about how I was a mermaid in a past life because it situated me closer to seafood boils.

I’ll always feel better about trying than about saying nothing at all. I’m hoping my destructive writing habits sat on the conveyor belt long enough to become medium– maybe even beneficial to some extent. Ugh