I’m stymied.
I’ve been writing a lot and getting nowhere fast. As of this very moment (not including this blog post), I’ve written close to 4,000 words spread out across three different draft blog posts. One is about the mental anguish I feel over not being disciplined enough (or perhaps capable enough) to sustain long-form reading, inquiry, writing, or creativity. In the past few days, I have become acutely aware of how my diminished attention span coupled with my long-standing discomfort and rebellion towards anything that might be seen as “serious” scholarship is a significant hindrance towards whatever it is that I’m currently doing. It is precisely why I have 4,000 words that go nowhere.
As examples of this… I sat down to paint. I’m not a very good painter. I wouldn’t mind being better, but when I look at what’s involved in being better, I kinda give up. I think about watching some videos and practicing, but just choosing a video seems like a daunting task. And then there’s the issue of proper supplies and lighting and and and. It’s silly to expect to be good at something that I don’t practice, and yet, I expect to be better at it than I am. This is a child’s frustration with any new task. There’s a disconnect between the proficiency we see in others and our own efforts/results.
As another example of this, I’d like to write more effectively about topics that are decidedly less about me and my life. I’d like to get better at writing about the national narrative around crime, or homelessness, or poverty, or democracy and our current political climate… I don’t know how to do that, and I’m far too uninformed to present a cogent and honest argument. When I think about what it would take to be more informed and to learn journalistic or rhetorical techniques, I kinda give up. I don’t know where or how to find sources for what’s going on. Worse yet, what feels lacking from our current political discourse is proper historical context and I don’t know where to get that.
As a third example, I’ve felt like I’ve been on the edge of an epiphany about how my complicated relationship with my father has influenced both my personality (rebelling against serious scholarship and discipline) and my choice in romantic partners (perhaps seeking strong, independent women whom I hope to win over in ways I could never win my father over). This is very closely tied in with the lack of discipline required to do other things well.
And finally, there’s poetry. Nearly every day, I think to myself that I should be writing, editing, and submitting. I don’t do any of those things, because I don’t know where to start. Quite often when I sit down to edit, I don’t like what I’m working on. The same thing happens when I sit down to put together some submissions. I’ll read through my poems and say to myself, “meh.” When I sit to write, the process feels foreign. It’s like I’m tasking myself with writing out the steps for baking cookies, but they have to be written in French. I don’t know French. What is a poem and how does it work?
Of the three things I’ve drafted but can’t seem to finish for my slothy corner of the internet, the most difficult is about the two critical voices I hear in my head: my father and my ex-fiancee. In some respects, they represent the warring factions in my soul (disciplined and structured vs. free spirited and artistic). They get convoluted, because even the artistic requires structured discipline. Even being free-spirited is a practice in seeing and moving and letting go. In the two biggest relationships of my adult life, my marriage and my engagement, I was impressed by my partner’s fortitude and discipline (to learning, to overcoming, to persisting). In some respects, my ex wife and my ex fiancee would seem like polar opposites, and what I’m trying to unearth is what attracted me to them and what I might have been trying (probably subconsciously) to gain or learn from them. Was I in some ways looking to them to help me overcome my own insecurities and/or feeling of inadequacy? We seek in others what we feel is missing in ourselves. Was I looking for role models on how to live a more structured or passionate or free life?
This is heady stuff, that either requires months of therapy (in the case of analyzing relationship patterns) or years of study and practice (in the case of writing and painting). In many areas of life, I am extremely patient and forgiving. With my own progress – less so. Despite hours of pounding away at the keyboard, I feel no closer to…? And that, there, is part of the problem. I expect something to have emerged after a few hours/days yet I’m not sure what it is I expect to have emerged.
I have some energy, I’m kinda smart, I’m mildly informed, and I’m on the cusp of being articulate. I can write. I can persuade people. I care deeply (almost passionately) about fairness, kindness, justice, and compassion. I work to understand who and where I am and how or why I got here. But I have little direction and even less gumption. It’s frustrating to feel capable yet stuck. It’s frustrating to want to do better (at just about everything) but not know where or how to start.
And of course, these are mild, but real frustrations. They’re not entirely born out of a sense of inadequacy (though when I’m being hard on myself, it factors in). And it’s not entirely true that I don’t know where to start… I picked up the paint brushes. I’m reading some essays on poetry. I’m deliberately trying to improve my attention and focus. I’m looking at quality of life statistics… and I’m constantly trying to slow down and enjoy the ride. I’ve written 4,000 words that I’ll return to again and again until they finally make sense or my attention gets pulled in a different direction.