Writing has always been excruciatingly painful for me.
It takes me FOR-FUCKING-EVER. My inner critics (yes, plural) doubt me every step of the way. And even after spending hours on one paragraph, I never feel like it’s up to par.
So I gave it up. For 2 entire years.
Yet the DESIRE to write – to express myself, to not just consume content but to also PRODUCE it – that never went away.
So, what’s a guy to do?
Well, I had this vague idea that my relationship with writing would magically transform if I just gave it some time.
That if I became wiser, had some mind-blowing experiences, “figured out” more about life, and did a shit-ton of meditation – in a few years I’d get back to my writing desk and HOLY SHIT, it would all be so different!
I’d be bursting with SO many things to say from all the amazing experiences I’ve had! No more scattered thoughts…my newfound wisdom would automatically produce fully formed, laser-focused paragraphs that would EFFORTLESSLY fly onto the page! My zen state of mind would silence my inner critics and writing would be FUN and FLOWING and OH SO JOYFUL UNICORNS AND RAINBOWS! YAY!!!
Well…two years have gone by.
I’m older. I’m wiser. I’ve had more amazing (and amazingly difficult) experiences. I’ve learned so much more about myself, the world around me. And I’ve done a shit-ton of meditation. So writing should be at least a little, teensy, tiny bit easier, right?
Nope. Hell fucking nope.
It was just as hellaciously difficult, frustrating, and painful as it was 2 years ago. Goddammit.
But those 2 years weren’t wasted. Oh, not at all.
I had spent those 2 years exploring every other avenue. All the possible shortcuts. Every single side street and back alley. And every single one of them, in respect to writing, turned up a dead end.
See, life had given me a beautiful gift.
With a still-burning-desire to write and having exhausted all other options, I was given the timeless, wonderful gift of NO OTHER EFFING CHOICE.