Not a writer? Write something anyway.

Against what feel like all the excuses in the world, I write these words. 

I’ve been sitting and listening to lectures on YouTube for the past few days – watching, with great concern, the spread of a virus throughout the world, comforting myself with the idea that in simply listening to intellectuals debate ideas (some topical, some fundamental) I’m accomplishing something, which is undoubtably true. 

But the mere fact that I’m rationalizing my ‘listen-don’t-speak’ behavioral pattern indicates I’m very much aware that while I know I’m accomplishing something, I ultimately still feel like I’ve been procrastinating.

It’s a vague sense of procrastination, I’ll admit, probably because I’m not sure exactly what I should be doing, at least not fully. And hey – I’ve been listening and learning lots of new things, and that can’t be all bad, right? 

But in the end, the guilt overcame the justifications and I opened my computer and started hacking away.

Fear of wasted opportunity vs. true satisfaction

I’m writing because of two things:

A) I feel like I should be writing more (there’s a guilt that accompanies any procrastination, and so of course I want to alleviate this feeling), but more than that..

B) I have a feeling that there’s something truly magical to be found when someone writes.

And by ‘someone,’ I honestly mean the most generic use of the word ‘someone’ – not just writers, authors, or lay-of-the-mill creatives, either.

Anyone.

But how accurate are either of these motivations?

Well, the feeling of guilt associated with procrastination certainly exists (which makes it real in the sense of sensation, though not necessarily justifiable). Additionally, it’s assuredly accurate in many senses, since there is always untapped potential in this world. Every moment doing (or not doing something) is a moment that could be used doing (or not doing) something else, and so the general feeling of untapped potential is not illogical. It’s at the base of the “Fear of Missing Out” that so many people describe having. But does the fear of missing out justify the doing of any action? Certainly not.

At the same time, there’s a sensation I experience in which I fear that the potential I’m not achieving (the potential of creating, or wrestling with my own ideas) is worth more than the potential I am achieving in that moment in which I feel guilt… that other pursuits (writing, as I’m doing right now being one of them), are ultimately of greater importance than simply listening to great speakers and thinkers of our time and in times previous. 

Is that value judgment – that writing and creating are worth more than listening and incorporating – a correct one? Who is to know?

Obviously one must listen to others to be exposed to information, new ideas, old ideas, and to hear how others arrive at their own conclusions. This is part of how we educate ourselves, and I don’t want to denigrate the idea that one should listen first, and then speak, because it’s undoubtedly true that there’s a whole lot of information out there that you or I just don’t know. 

And yet the urge to create is still there… this idea that I might have an idea to explore through my own mind and thoughts and process of self expression, despite the fact that others (unquestionably more educated and more able to eloquently express their ideas) have done just that – wrestled with the topics I’ve been exploring and expressed their conclusions. 

I feel that my voice is also worthy, a thing of value. 

Are my thoughts worthy to be read by others? Is that even the right question?

Stephen Fry, as a guest on Sam Harris’ podcast Making Sense, when asked about his many artistic pursuits, admitted that he thought of writing as being that pursuit which produced the most satisfaction for him personally.

“Generally speaking, I cleave to the truth that writing is the thing that gives me the deepest satisfaction – and, indeed, the highest highs, you know – the most extreme feelings of whatever that creative impulse is. It doesn’t mean that what you’re writing is good, but the feeling you get from a sense of achievement in writing is… bigger than the burst of applause onstage,” said Fry.

But does this mean that what I say, or what you say, is ‘worthy’ to be read by others?

Truthfully, I’m not here to assure you that your writing, when compared to great works of literature, will stack up. Nor do I ultimately think that how your writing (or my writing) compares with ‘great writing’ is ultimately important to my point.

But to address that issue, of course the legitimacy and thus ‘value’ of an idea is important in the world at large – we, as humans, have to be able to rank and value ideas based on their usefulness and their alignment with the facts of the world, such that we can choose to adopt them or not. 

But the unintended consequence of such internal mental ranking is this – people seem to shy away from writing and creating for fear that what they create won’t resonate with others, or won’t be found to be valuable by the audience. 

How many times have you heard someone say, “I listened to her sing, and it made me want to quit forever” ?

This idea whispers in our minds:

“What if what I have to say just isn’t worthwhile, isn’t relevant, is stupid, or simply is something that others have said before, ad nauseam? What if people realize this and expose my ideas for their simplicity or lack of eloquence? Perhaps then, I shouldn’t write at all?” 

This idea that you have nothing to say that is ‘worthy’ to be read by others is just that, an idea. It could thus be debated or debunked should I want to convince myself, or others, that in fact we DO have something to say that is valuable to others. 

But that’s starting the argument further up the ladder than one needs to, because it includes the a priori assumption that something is only valuable if it is of value to others. 

Is value only predicated on a thing’s worth to someone else?

What if writing, creating, and expressing oneself has integral value to the one doing the creating? 

What I have found, in my own life, is that those endeavors I’ve embarked upon – the endeavors in which I’m forced to walk my own mind through a series of if / then statements and formulate a defense of something I believe, or realize the errors or inconsistencies of my belief systems – those endeavors have been of incredible value to me, and the products of those endeavors (essays like this one, songs, stories, sketches) are tangible artifacts for which I feel a real sense of accomplishment, not just because of what they turn out to be, but because of the process it took to create them.

I have countless songs I’ve never released, and many an unfinished essay saved on my computer. Are those ‘artifacts’ without value because they’ve not been shared with the world? Certainly not. Could they be of more value if shared? Perhaps. 

But when I sit and think about my life, there are few things more integral to my fundamental experience as a human being than the way in which I describe it.

I’m going to repeat that, because it’s easy, while listening to someone else speak coherently, to nod one’s head and move to the next while missing the true point of any given statement.

And this is the crux of my argument.

There are few things more integral to my fundamental experience as a human being than the way in which I describe it.

Therefore, an analysis of the ways in which my internal description of life – my beliefs, conscious (or less than) – shape my experience, in this very moment… that analysis can be nothing but valuable to me. 

This is at the very root of many forms of philosophy – the idea that concepts, thoughts, and ideas about the world are a) powerful, b) never entirely accurate, as the description of a thing can never entirely encompass what it actually is, but that c) the struggle between ideas and reality is at the root of what it is to be human. 

As Alan Watts likes to remind us, “The opening lines of the Tao are ‘The Tao that can be told [put into words] is not the eternal Tao,’” after which Watts pauses, and continues, “and yet Lao Tzu WROTE that.” 

Playing with words is at the core of being human

The ultimate truth of our existence is ineffable (can’t be stated). It can’t be encapsulated by these clunky words and numbers and symbols that humans use to describe things. 

And YET, our use of words and symbols to describe the world is what makes us human, brings us joy, and at the same time consistently reminds us of the limits of words. Only in the sincere use of words to express human thought can we realize where words fail, and that’s not a bad thing. The fact that these concepts (existence, divinity, humanity, freedom, morality) are so difficult to describe hints at their wonder, weight, and importance. 

And for some reason, being forced to articulate my own ideas – to write them, letter by letter, word by word, and then to contend with where they ring true, where they seem less well structured, and especially where those same words peter out and lose efficacy – this process actually satisfies my brain, satisfies my heart, satisfies my soul in a way that seems almost magical. 

So, in summation I recommend this (to myself, first and foremost)… write every single day. [And don’t you worry, those you who are quick to point fingers… no, I haven’t followed my own advice… not even close. I wrote this essay two weeks ago, meant to return to edit, and am just now getting back to it, having not written anything else. ] Perhaps you can forgive me.

And I’m not saying this only to “writers,” nor to myself because I’m something of a writer, but to everyone.

Why? Because again, putting the world we experience into words and ideas is something that everyone does, always.

It’s kind of similar to my fanciful idea that all humans should, after high school, work in food service for at least 6 months. Why? Because we all go to dinner (at least we used to – I’m writing this during the COVID-19 pandemic), and yet the way in which one addresses the wait staff seems to be very correlated to whether or not you’ve worked in food service. Having worked in food service, you’re much more in ‘tune’ with the process of food – which things do take time, which things shouldn’t, and when frustration with a waiter is justified, and when it’s not.

If you’ve never worked in food service, it can be very easy to expect things of a restaurant, or its employees, that simply aren’t feasible or fair.

Similarly with writing, everyone ‘names’ the world, but few of us do it consciously.

We look at our experience (general or specific) and label it as positive or negative. We unconsciously parse experiences into separate ‘events’ and lackadaisically conceptualize ‘who we are’ and ‘what we want,’ so often without truly sitting and meditating on these things.

But does this experience of life have to be wholly unconscious? Could we have a process by which we must sit and contend with our thoughts, the very doing of which tends to make people more satisfied and empowered? I think writing does just that. 

In conclusion

There’s something incredibly satisfying about seeing true words on paper. They may only be your own truth. They may not resonate with others to the degree that you desire. But neither of those details matter nearly as much as the positive, meaningful, calming effects that creative activities have on us all. 

I’d venture to say that writing leads to a plasticity of mind… a state in which one feels more calm and at peace with that terrible place in which ideas (words, religions, ideologies, political parties, dreams) don’t seem to match perfectly with what we experience in the world.

But why?

Because writing forces us to contend with the fact that words simply can’t accurately describe true existence. And thus, neither can your ‘idea’ about who you are, which is built of some combination of words. Neither can your political party. Neither can your religion. They can get close, perhaps, but when they fail, as they will, it’s perhaps too easy to rage against them (or defend them zealously) because you know, deep down, that the exposure of the cracks within said ideology will lead to the exposure of cracks in you as well.

And we don’t want to think that.

But we must.

We must contend with our own mind. The places where it makes sense. The places where it doesn’t. And the places where these words we use every single day… where those words fail us.

Moreover, we may even come to the peaceful conclusion that such a failing is ok. Words will never be enough. But perhaps we won’t know that without using them. Playing with them. Knowing their strengths, and their inherent limitations.

So write. Draw. Talk. Think.

And for this brief moment in time, you might have a little extra time to do just that.

Just try it, not just because you have a voice that’s valuable and should be heard, but for a more selfish (though certainly not unhealthy) reason – it fills your life with meaning and reminds you, consistently, of those magical aspects of life that simply can’t be put into words. 

~ Cecil