Write On

“On action alone be thy interest, never on its fruits.”  Bhagavad Gita

I have recently realised that I need to do more writing, that I WANT to do more writing, that I really love writing, that writing for me is really important and good for me, and as such, should be something I do on a regular basis – namely every day, the way I do yoga, meditation, and prayer (which are also very good for me);  but that I have been fettered by my own beliefs about writing, and being a writer. 

I have been obsessed with the idea that the whole aim is to become an author, to write and publish books, that this is the epitome of writinghood (no, it’s not a real word, I know, but who cares?  All the words in every language in the world weren’t ‘real’ until someone first made them up: and even then some of them are a bit suspect).  And so I’ve believed that each thing I undertake to write is merely fuel for the fire of authordom, that it is simply the means to the end of becoming a ‘proper’ writer/author, and that I need to get my skates on if I’m to reach that elusive goal of one day writing a book.

I am abetted in my misguided aims by the society in which I live which is chiefly concerned with the acquisition of things – wealth, possessions, prestige, power, etc.  And the teaching of this credo starts in school, a place where learning is not about simply taking pleasure in the acquisition of knowledge for its own sake, but as a means to an end, the end being that you’ll be able to use it in order to pass your exams in the not-too-distant future, thereby assuring yourself of better prospects of a good job. 

Is it any wonder kids hate school, having to live with that kind of pressure, and being taught stuff they might have no interest in, but because it is what society dictates will be of use in their future lives?  And me?  Why, of course, I have dutifully copied that which I have absorbed beautifully from our society – I abandoned art because it wasn’t considered useful, and I took Maths (a subject I loathed, was hopeless at, and failed every time I sat the exam, which turned out to be thrice) because I took it literally when I was told that we would need it and English if we were to have any hope of getting a decent job.  And hence still being driven to prove that I am a writer by the fruits of my labours, and the lure of money and possible prestige and fame if I manage to become a published author of novels.   

Then, as the consequence of a conversation with my best friend, I came to see that, contrary to this belief, I am actually not novelist material.  I am a writer, and my strength lies in writing short pieces.  I guess, to use a sports analogy, I am the equivalent of a sprinter in the athletics world, rather than a long distance runner; some of which is undoubtedly shaped by having ADHD.  I don’t have the stamina to last a marathon or a ten thousand metre run – I cannot sustain my interest.  But I’m a bloody good sprinter, working well in short bursts.  (Ironically, I really was a good sprinter at school, and had hopes of being a professional athlete – which also did not come to fruition, it not being considered a viable career choice either.) 

So, rather than lamenting the fact, envying all those people who can and do write novels, and insisting on aiming for the impossible, I’ve decided that it’s time to accept, and adjust to, what my strengths are, be grateful for the gift that I have, and bloody well get on with practicing them, rather than continually giving myself a bad time (not to mention yet another reason for procrastination) by comparing myself, and compounding the lie that I could write a novel like everyone else seems to be able to do if I tried harder.  But where would be the point in that if, in the process, I simply ended up emulating everyone else, fitting myself to a genre, and, more importantly, didn’t even enjoy doing it?

So, as part of taking action to do more writing, I decided that I would do some every day, no matter what I wrote – I would try to stop restricting myself; stop being focussed on, and obsessed with, the outcome (the now ingrained belief that it has to be something that is going to be read by other people, otherwise it’s not worth the effort), and simply get into the process.  Because, ultimately, it’s the process that counts, not the end result.  It’s actually doing the writing that makes me happy, not having my eye on where it’s going.

Also as a consequence of becoming audience-focused (which is basically about feeding my ego), I have ended up, inadvertently, restricting myself to mainly writing for my blog (with the very occasional poem thrown in, which also gets published on here), because of my resistance to simply exploring an idea on paper and seeing how it develops.  Instead, I make the decision beforehand, so I basically set my own limitations.  And, being autistic and having difficulty with being inflexible, I have got locked into doing only one thing, and so become rigid about the way I write. 

My blog has ended up becoming the sum total of my whole writing experience; and, as such, I use it as the place in which to practice things which really don’t belong here, because I have denied myself the opportunity to do them anywhere else due to the limitations I have unconsciously set up.  Instead of being the place in which I primarily share my thoughts, ideas, and experiences, it’s become somewhere for me to practice my grammar, and the art of writing – so no wonder it often can seem so dry and heartless. 

Plus, it takes me so long to write one article because I’m so busy crafting  it, then editing and re-editing it, until it’s polished to my liking - all skills which really belong to a different mode of writing.  By the time I’ve completed an article, whatever I’ve written about is old news in my life, and I’ve gotten bored with it anyway.  There’s nothing spontaneous about my blog, except for when I get the titles popping into my head.    

So now I’m trying to do things differently.  The last article I wrote was a miracle – conceived, written out, typed up, and completed within the space of two days.  And I’ve told myself so many times that I can’t do it like that, that I can only write one way, the way that I’ve described.  Obviously that’s not true.  Ten years ago, before the advent of blogging, I was writing short stories.  Now I tell myself I can’t do that anymore because I struggled in the interim with writing anything at all. 

And, having acquired the magical label of autistic, one who struggles not just with social stuff but imagination, it’s as if I have taken to heart and absorbed the idea that my imagination is limited in all areas of life, including creativity.  Which, based on the evidence, is patently not true, nor logical.  But, as the saying goes, “What you believe you become.”  And I have become a rigid writer.  

Now I have to believe differently, and change what I do to come into line with the new beliefs.  And, I have to say, I feel rather excited, and hopeful, about it.  No more labouring under the illusion that I have to, or even want to, write full length novels.  Thank God for that!  My brain was on the verge of meltdown from the effort of trying to conceive an idea that I could string out over the length of a whole book!