Here is the real: Unless I am diligent about my writing–unless I do it every single day–I won’t do it at all. I’ll cheat, cut corners, pretend, make excuses, find other hobbies, act like it doesn’t matter all that much, and flat out sulk. All of these things are easier than putting my butt in my office chair and writing. In fact, I am writing this blog from the kitchen table, because I don’t want to go in there. The work is hard. The not knowing is harder.
This moment represents a small epiphany. Much of what we call writer’s block stems from the moment of not knowing. It is part fear, part frustration, part lack of clear will (though it takes a form of ‘willpower’ to decide to not write and thus not be ‘right’). Not Knowing means sitting down in front of a page and not knowing how to get that first sentence right or not being able to figure out how a chapter should come together. It might mean recognizing plot and thematic holes that are so big that it takes you stepping outside of your stubborness to fix them. It means recognizing that, though writing is oft described as a solitary art, you cannot ever be a great writer on your own and not having the courage to really lean on someone else–instead calling that ‘troubling them with your words and ideas’.
It means being afraid you might suck and not actually being okay with that. It means being afraid that you were good–really good–once and you aren’t that good anymore. It means not knowing how to get back there. It means knowing you can’t go back and thus cannot ever get back there.
Not knowing is the ultimate form of precipice surrender. By that I mean you would rather sit on the precipice of something and not have the answers of what lies beneath so that you can have the comfort of knowing that where you are still allows you to believe in what could be the answer. It is Schrodinger’s Cat.
I have long decided to not know. Still, I know it is time to trust the process.