On metrics and formulas
Each time I sit down to write something, an overwhelming fear latches on to my hands. In spite of myself, in spite of everything I’ve ever written, in spite of all of the ideas I’ve ever had, a feeling of inadequacy prevents me from turning idea to ideogram—let alone putting pen to paper. I’ve been writing since I was 15-years-old, and I still worry that I can’t write.
Granted, my earliest work lacked nuance and style, but it certainly contained an undeniable character. When I first started writing, I was overcome with a burning desire to catalogue my every thought and idea. I couldn’t stop myself from writing something banal or mundane at the end of the day. No matter what was going on in my life, regardless of any plans or events that filled my schedule, I wrote.
At first, I wrote garbled nonsense—I wrote the same incomprehensible philosophy that often signifies the work of all early writers. Eventually, my thoughts took tangible form, and my writing gained weight and heft. No longer was I writing nonsense; I was writing about things—I was writing things—that had meaning. My writing had purpose.
At first I was overcome with the passion to write. Now, I’m overcome with the fear of stagnancy. I have ideas in my head. I have thoughts that would burn ink on paper. I also have a crippling fear that I’ll never be able to write again. I tell myself that my fears are irrational. Of course my fears are irrational. All fears are irrational, but recognizing that fear is irrational doesn’t stop a child from fearing clowns and it certainly doesn’t stop people from fearing spiders, or heights, or clowns yet again.
In its purest form, I’m afraid that I’ll never be able to write again. I’ve never really had an audience, so I don’t fear finding a niche. Each time I sit down to put pen to paper, or finger to keys, I stop the moment I can’t find the words. That’s really what it comes down to: not being able to find the words. The words used to be clear—I was passionate, and the most passionate words were the easiest to find. Anger and conflict fuelled my writing, and as I grew weary with whatever patience-demanding thing gripped the world that day—that hour—I wrote because I was passionate. I wrote because I was angry. I wrote because I thought being angry would be enough to spark change—to make a difference.
This isn’t entirely untrue, but it’s certainly not enough to fuel a lifetime of writing. Well, excusing Glen Beck and Bill O’Reilly from that statement, anger and unbridled rage should not be enough to fuel a lifetime of writing.
My fears are always focused on the past. Things were different in the past. I was different in the past. Things changed and I changed, and it’s harder to find the words now than it was in the past, so clearly the problem is with the present. No, the problem is with my desk. No, no, the problem is with my pen.
If I get a new keyboard, if I get a new pen, if I get new paper, if I get a new room, if I get a new desk, if I get new friends, if I get a new brain, then I’ll really be able to write. Wait a minute, now it’s loud outside. The cars speeding by produce a faint rhythm that a bloodhound would be unable to notice. That’s what’s stopping me from writing: the traffic outside.
I wonder if all fears are like mine. I wonder if the little boy who’s scared of spiders, or the dog who’s scared of snakes recognizes that their fears are irrational. Or maybe they, like me, are operating on the assumption of irrationality, and therefore feel that, because there’s fears are irrational, rationally their fears are worthy of merit.
I digress. As I keep writing, as I force my way through the miasma of my mind, as I force myself to find my words, lashing out at whatever thought or phrase seems to work at the moment, as I brute-force it, as I DDoS my way through an idea, as I come closer to actually writing something, my fears slowly disappear.
It’s really a matter of word count. A paper is 500 words. Ad copy is 450 words. A review is 750 words. A movie review is 1000 words. If I write enough of my ideas, if I come up with enough words, if I keep writing, then I’ll be able to click the submit button and move on. It’s about the destination, not the journey.
I remind myself that it shouldn’t be, because that’s not what philosophers have said for generations.
“It’s always about the journey,” says the wise mystic on the mountain. “Only when one has circumnavigated the world will they realize that the end and the beginning—shoot—the beginning and the end are one and the same.”
The thing about wise mystics is that they really don’t know very much at all. Being wise is knowing that one knows nothing at all. Being a Ph.D. candidate is knowing that you know nothing at all too. Granted, at least a Ph.D. candidate knows enough about one thing to know they don’t know nearly enough about anything.
I digress. Each time I sit down to write something, an overwhelming sense of excitement stimulates every muscle in my mind—every neuron in my brain. I’m afraid of the past. I don’t know what I’m doing in the present. Don’t even get me started on the future.
When I’m almost done, when I’ve written something—even if it is utter nonsense—I feel better.
The words in my mind, jumbled as they may be, fit together into specific shapes and patterns, making something meaningful. I don’t want to stop. It’s almost 1000 words, and I’m sure I’ve written nothing of merit, but I’m certain that it matters to me.
My fears will never disappear. I don’t know what defines a strong piece of literature, and I believe that terrifies me. There’s no quantifiable measure of strong writing. There’s no metric or formula or calculable force that differentiates between strong writing and shit. In an increasingly scientific world—at least, in my mind anyway—the fact that we don’t know what makes someone’s writing readable terrifies me. It’s difficult, pressing these keys in a pattern that produces content. It’s difficult not knowing the answers to the universe too.
Maybe if I write a bit more, I’ll be able to find out.