Writing, whether it’s for work or pleasure, often feels like something you should be doing but aren’t. “Oh I wish I could do more… but…”
We get stuck in our own heads and never get round to putting pen to paper.
We say it’s a lack-of-time thing, but is it really a perfectionist thing?
A “it’s too hard/it’ll be rubbish, so I’ll leave it til later ooooops it didn’t get done again” thing?
I absolutely love this from the poet Joy Sullivan for a bit of perspective and a kick up the arse (she would say ass, because she is American).
Text reads:
‘People often tell me that they want to write but don’t know where to start. And so they never begin.
It’s a bit like saying you want to go on a trip, but you’re not sure if you’d like Denver or Taos or Austin better. So you never see any of them. Instead of getting in the car or boarding the plane, you shrug and say some day. You look at other peoples’ pleasures and ache.
Here’s a comfort: something always happens when you pick up the pen. Even if, by your own assessment, it’s rubbish. Any time you write, you taste sound. You swallow language. There’s colour and heat and friction. A thought crystallises, an emotion clarifies, a desire intensifies. Your heart perks up like a sharp-eyed crow. Life begins to gleam.
Writing always takes you somewhere. Not every trip is to a luxury destination. That’s normal. Chances are good you’ll still spot something interesting on the side of the road.
J.Sullivan”
What if the blank page was actually just the start of the adventure?
Would it make you more excited to pick up the pen and see where it takes you?