I keep making the same mistake again and again: I don’t write even when I want to because I feel I am being unnecessary. The internet is noisy, polluted. People are experiencing digital fatigue. No one is paying attention to the real world. We all need to go touch grass. Who needs one more blog post?
I have answered this question a million times before. Always, the conclusion is that it matters. But I keep forgetting it, and every time there’s an urge to write, I first spend ages trying to look for reasons that it is a good idea to write. I will always encourage others to write–I still keep telling my classmates to do so–but I need to convince myself, over and over, even though I love writing, even though not writing creates an unsettling feeling in my body that permeates everything and creates confusion and frustration that I can’t name at the time but later recognize as what I once named creative frustration.
Today, I am very, very frustrated, but already I feel some of the tightness deflating, making space for air. I’d been feeling clogged and choked. Right now, I am determined, stubborn, to push the words out, all of them, and write here until I am exhausted, until I have cleaned up every single blocked crevice, pushed the words out from where they were stuck in my brain, from where I’d stuffed them behind closet doors. I will write until it becomes a physical effort to type one more sentence. I will write beyond satiation, say everything that has been going on in my mind, that I’ve been imagining myself writing but never did.
Today, I will say it all. And today, I will be very, very messy about it. And I will do it all without shame.
Because to hell with the Demon of Perfectionism. To hell with utility, with worries about the environmental impact of this tiny little blog on an ignored little corner of the internet, to hell with questioning the value of my words. To hell with the idea of seeking value in anything.
I am so fucking tired. I don’t swear so much usually, but sometimes no other word would do. The sound of “fucking” captures the throat-poking frustration so accurately.
Life is short. That means nothing. Life is unpredictable is actually what that sentence means. There are no guarantees is what that means. People are scared of that. I was scared of that, for years. I didn’t do anything because I was too busy being afraid. Now I’m not doing anything because I’m not afraid enough.
I don’t want to be afraid, but I also don’t want to be fearless. I am here, now, and I love writing, and to hell with the idea of saving ideas for potential paid publication, to hell with organizing ideas, to hell with writing with clarity. If you want straightforward ideas, there’s ChatGPT. (On that note, to hell with ChatGPT and AI, too.) (Only when it comes to making things. If it can save lives, I’m all for it.)
To hell with being organized. To hell with saying one thing per blog post. To hell with any rules about making anything.
Just open the editor and type. Bang your fingers on the keyboard. Make literal noise with your words, the hard clickety-clacks becoming as natural and unnoticeable as the whirring of the fan overhead. Type, type, type. Slam the keys hard. Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t think.
Just write, say it all, say it any which way.
Make a mess. Be human. To hell with keeping things neat. AI will do that for you. Write as the thoughts come, disorganized, tumbling over each other, like flotsam in your cerebrospinal fluid.
Don’t give a shit about writing sentences like the previous one. Be unashamed in your need to use the words “cerebrospinal fluid.”
There are so many contradictions, so many things to consider. The internet is tiring. The internet is boring. Now even the indie web is tiring and boring. There’s no freshness. The real world is appealing once again, the screen is a void, a black hole. There’s no joy in it.
But that’s also the voice of the few who are distant enough from the internet yet also engaged in it to notice what’s going on. It’s a voice mostly made up of people from the west. The real world is also filled with people who know nothing of the indie web. They have stories to tell, but they do not speak or aren’t proficient in English. They don’t know how blogs work. They’ve historically being marginalized. They’re speaking now, but their audience is mostly made up of people from their own communities. Very few have voices that carry outside the walls, to others willing to listen to them, let alone to those who need to listen to them. Listen, and change.
The subtle, revolutionary power of the blogging is still under-tapped by them. There are a lot of voices on the internet, but there are larger number that aren’t here and need to be. Who defines this need? That’s a separate inquiry.
To hell with the idea that everyone writing is a bad thing. We are human. We make things. Being human is not a bad thing. You can choose to turn away from other people’s writing. But to hell with anyone who thinks they should make your life easier by not creating so much. Look to the real world, to books and music and walks in the park, if that’s what you like. But don’t go telling people they’re making too much stuff. They’re not making everything for you. You have the choice. Use it. Go look at what makes you happy.
I am writing here today because I’ve been wanting to do so for several weeks now. I am tired of holding myself back because I don’t think my ideas are original enough. People throughout history have gone ahead and written what they had to say and they ended up changing their little corners of the world. They didn’t need anyone’s permission. They wanted to say something and they said it. They didn’t worry if what they were writing right now could later be turned into a book. “We do not accept previously published works, including works published on personal blogs,” may not have been a painful sentence for them, but it doesn’t have to be for me either. There is no need for me to worry. The words will keep coming. And no one said I will not write something good ever again. Also, to hell with regretting that an excellent piece that I posted on my blog could have been published by one of my target magazines and so I wasted a potentially paid essay. To hell with the idea of making money with all the words I write. I don’t need so much money. I don’t need so many credentials.
But I need to write. To hell with not writing!
Of all the places on the internet, I should be the most free on my blog because this is my space. I don’t need anyone’s approval; I don’t need to worry about how much I’m writing; I don’t need to worry about grammar and editing. To hell with grammar and editing. If you want to write, write. Write short posts, write long posts. Blog 10 times a day. You’re not pushing your words on anyone. If they’re here, it’s because they choose to be. Respect their fucking choices. Respect their ability to choose.
And respect your need to write. Life is short yada yada yada. You’re not going to think–if you’re lucky (or unlucky) enough to have a moment to think–just before you die, “I wish I had written less.”
Write more. Write millions and billions of words. Out there are an infinite number of monkeys sitting with their typewriters. Outwrite them all. Give the words, keep them tumbling out. No, break down the dam. Let the torrent flood everything. Don’t stop, don’t think. Write until your wrists break. Write until your fingers burn. Set your screen aflame in the heat of your voice. Sit in that fire. And even then, don’t stop writing.