I’ve spent over 6 months thinking about what to say, if I should say anything at all. Why? What’s the point? Who’s going to read it? Does it matter what I say? Does it matter if anyone reads it?
These thoughts through my head for 6 months, sitting down to write and then nothing. Nothing would come out, nothing. And when something does come out, I write it and re-write it and eventually erase it.
I think I’ve spent most of my life starting things without ever committing to finishing them, or starting things without having an idea of where I want it to go. It’s paralysis. Or, anxiety. Or, both.
Maybe it’s not worth pursuing. The love of writing is not the the skill to build repetion through consistency, it’s the love of thinking through an idea. What do I say? What should I say? Is it worth saying? Who cares?
Is writing for others or is writing for me? Am I going regret what I wrote? Am I going to regret who read it?
Rather than sitting down and writing, I’m sitting there, for an hour, staring at the screen running my mind through what I could say, what I shouldn’t say, what I can’t say, what I won’t say. It’s exhausting. I don’t even know what to think about anymore, is it worth my time (and yours) trying to articulate an idea--this idea?
This entire exercise, is futile. With so much “content” and ways to spend time, is it worth reading what I wrote? Is what I wrote worth your time?
In a perfect world, I sit down to write for 60 minutes. No breaks, no backspaces. Stream of thought. That doesn’t seem so hard, it seems doable. Can I do it every day? Ever week? Is it worth it? Does it matter? Who will read it? Who won’t read it?
My mind keeps racing at the thought of even putting something out into the world. I used to all the time. Back when I was running More Than Baseball I would stay up and write every night, I had a purpose and a story to tell. I wanted (and needed) to share this experience with the world. Over time I started to doubt myself and my ability, I started to care what others thought about it, about me. I deleted everything I ever wrote, I deleted my social media, I removed myself from the internet, from public life.
Maybe it was shame? I don’t know of what. Maybe it was a continued unwillingness to be vulnerable. Or, a falling out of love with the craft itself. This is around the time I stopped meditating and started doing things I knew I shouldn’t. Can writing be for me what painting was for others? Could this be my art?
I’ve always wanted to pursue an art. I said baseball was my art, and it was, I knew I was entertaining to an extent. I learned guitar but to be able to play if called upon--in the 10 years of playing guitar, I’ve played with another person maybe 3 times. I knew I was never artistic, and not in an everyone can be artistic sort of way, I just never thought it was any good.
But maybe that’s my problem. I was making for others, what is it like to make for myself. What does it mean to make art out of passion and love of creating rather than making it for others?
I’m caught between two ideologies and it’s kept me frozen for years. I don’t know what to say, I have too much to say. Should I say it? Should I keep it in? Why does it matter?
I spend all my time thinking about the reasons not to do something. Not to pursue the feeling of something that brings me joy, I appreciate the ability I have to get words out. I shouldn’t care what others might think about it. It’s not for them, or for you, I don’t know you. And, you don’t know me (not yet).
I started “In Practice” as a way to explore this idea and the dichotomy (even the battle) between writing for myself or writing for others. I’m choosing to see what happens each time I sit down to get my thoughts out on paper and not be hung up on what ifs and what nots. I’m tired of doing nothing. I’d rather make something bad than not make something at all.
Or, is that the wrong approach? What’s good and what’s bad? Who determines that? Me or you?
It’s exhausting to want to do something so badly yet struggle to make anything come out. If writing is a muscle, I’ve atrophied. Will I (Can I? Should I?) commit to continuing to pursue this? For what purpose? As a means to what ends?
Forty-five minutes into this exercise, this leap of faith and I’m shaking at the thought of reading this. Is it worth the trouble? Should I continue or just stop here? Should I put it into the world or should I keep it to myself?
I’m fascinated by those that can do it, that can stick to a schedule and bring an idea to life on a daily or weekly basis. What skill do they have that I don’t? What motivation exists within them to share their ideas with the world? Is it something taught, is it something learned, is it something within you or your psyche that motivates you to get something into the world?
With the amount of reach people can have in today’s society, is my thought worth sharing? Who cares about what I think? But, I care about what they think. I love that I can read independent writing every day. It makes me thankful there are outlets to create like this. I find tremendous value in others making their art and telling their stories; it’s my gateway to the world. Do I have that within me?
Maybe.