Clawing my way back to writing

“I have never created anything in my life that did not make me feel, at some point or another, like I was the guy who just walked into a fancy ball wearing a homemade lobster costume. But you must stubbornly walk into that room, regardless, and you must hold your head high. You made it; you get to put it out there. Never apologize for it, never explain it away, never be ashamed of it. You did your best with what you knew, and you worked with what you had, in the time that you were given. You were invited, and you showed up, and you simply cannot do more that that. They might throw you out - but then again, they might not. They probably won't throw you out, actually. The ballroom is often more welcoming and supportive than you could ever imagine. Somebody might even think you're brilliant and marvelous. You might end up dancing with royalty. Or you might just end up having to dance alone in the corner of the castle with your big, ungainly red foam claws waving in the empty air. that's fine, too. Sometimes it's like that. What you absolutely must not do is turn around and walk out. Otherwise, you will miss the party, and that would be a pity, because - please believe me - we did not come all this great distance, and make all this great effort, only to miss the party at the last moment.”

― Elizabeth Gilbert, Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear

I used to write. In high school and college, I wrote things... poems, short stories, essays, speeches. I was published (not in, like, a real publication, but my words were printed by other people with my name next to them). I won awards (again, not, like, huge awards, but I wouldn't exactly be lying if I were to claim I'm an award-winning writer).

After I graduated from college, I had a roommate for a short time who was really into writing. She was working to stand up a local literary magazine and she would do readings at the coffee house. She surrounded herself with other creative people, and she had collected some of my material to include in an upcoming publication.

She was also super weird. Like, standing in our kitchen totally naked in the middle of the day, chanting to candles in drum circles, speaking in a fake high pitched sing-songy voice weird. It was not a match made in roommate heaven.

I stopped writing soon after she caught our apartment building on fire with a smoldering cigarette and got us evicted. Although the timing also coincided with my trying to establish early career footholds (read: I was a workaholic), I was indeed afraid of being weird like her. Writing was a nice skill that would help differentiate me in my professional life, but creative writing was hippy dippy and pointless.

Afraid. Pointless.

We'll come back to that.

Over the years, I workaholicked and mothered. I didn't have time to write and didn't think about it much. For a long time, I was a data analyst, which was not the greatest fit for me, but I was able to do it well out of sheer refusal to fail. At one point, I took the Myers-Briggs 2 test, which is supposed to tell you what your ideal job is, and I learned that I would be happiest if I had the chance to be creative.

I'm sure you're not going to be surprised when I tell you that data analyst and creative aren't two words that often go together.

So I sat on\that information for a few years (read: almost a decade). Eventually, I changed jobs, and I'm happy for my analyst experience, which I can leverage along with some degree of creativity in my role as a Product Manager.

A few years ago (again, too many years ago), I read Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert, in which she makes the case for a creative life. It is a stunning book, and I've never forgotten how powerful her message was.

I've been thinking about writing again ever since.

But who has time? I have a big job, one that could be 50-60-70 hours a week if I let it. I'm a mother, a wife, a 50/50 partner on housework (yes, you read that right--50/50--it's okay to be jealous).

I have sat back for years and let threads of inspiration pass over me. Ideas, sometimes quite robust ones, would come... and I would do nothing.

I am afraid to be weird. I'm afraid to write about work and family or anything that might cause repercussions. I'm afraid to be vulnerable, self-indulgent, trite.

It's pointless to write if no one is going to read it. It's pointless to be just another mediocre writer in the world. It's pointless to write when there's so much else to do.

The thing about that word afraid is that I despise it. "Fuck fear" is an actual motto I have. I refuse to make fear-based decisions in any part of my life.

And the thing about the word pointless is that it's a word that is tied to perfectionism, which is an unhealthy thing. The point of anything in life is the experience, the joy of it, the memories, the lessons learned, the personal growth.

There is inspiration everywhere.

It's time to stop letting the ideas pass by.