I always love to have Rey on the blog because they often know how to put words to feelings I simply can’t, but deeply feel. That is the case again with this post about anxiety and writing that I love and can’t wait for you all to read. You can find Rey on Twitter.
It’s been a hard few weeks.
I feel like I should preface that before we go into this. I’m in the thick of everything I’m about to talk to you about today, and I hope that brings you some sort of relief as you read this post. Especially if you relate. Particularly if you relate.
Four weeks ago I looked at every project I had been working on for multiple months in a row and felt like every piece of work I had done, every word committed from finger, to keyboard, to screen, was trash. That the project I was working on had done nothing for me as I was finding myself slowly stuck in its story, in the monotony of its existence. Just a few weeks prior it had felt like everything I wanted in the palm of my hand, a key to getting to where I wanted to go. I had, and still am having, multiple issues with this piece. It’s unlike any project I’ve worked on before, and that is both a good and bad thing. In my good moments, as I reflect over the last few months, I am very much aware that I have learned countless more lessons in the three months of consecutively working on it than I had ever imagined. In my bad moments, I’m aware that it’s feeling more and more like another shelved project. Something that needs to sit and think about what it’s done in the corner, dwelling always on the fact that it may remain unfinished to the end of my days. Since it’s sitting in a corner of my brain, I’m not likely forget anytime soon either.
Here’s the thing.
Since June, I have been working nonstop on this book. Also since June, I have been having a nonstop issue in my working life, that has caused nearly unending anxiety and thrown me into another depressive episode. I’m very much aware that both of these things are bleeding into my views and thoughts of this project, and more so my ability to work on it. It’s seemed the stress had once been manageable – three months worth of being manageable it seems, and I’ll admit that’s impressive. In that three months I did some impressive work. I wrote more than ninety thousand words, outlined and planned an entire revision, and then started a revision…that came to a stuttering halt. I had made it just over ten thousand words. It wasn’t even the part where I usually get tripped up in my manuscripts – usually it takes until the twenty, twenty-five thousand word mark. But as I was going through this rewrite, a massive undertaking, I came to a stuttering halt that I haven’t been able to move forward in since.
There’s multiple factors that have played into what is looking like the swan song of this project, and I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not sure what factor is most prominent. Is it that I had been working on it for 90 days with nearly no break, determined to finish the draft and then immediately jumping into revisions because of a self-imposed deadline? Was it that after I got rid of that self-imposed deadline, knowing that I had no use for it, that I lost all my discipline? Was it that the characters, who I usually let come to me organically, had come from outlines and character types and been built from the ground up instead of discovered? Was it that I no longer cared about the story, that outlining it had spoiled the end and left me wanting? Perhaps it was that I didn’t care enough about the story. Maybe it was a passing plot bunny that struck the cord of my heart and brought my mind more joy in that moment. Maybe it was because I had started burning a different candle when I was sitting down to work and it threw me out of my groove, forever. Or maybe it was that I had been working so hard, for so long, distracting myself from my anxiety and my depressive episode that the second I let myself slip, the lack of self-care caught up to me and pulled me straight down with it.
I’m not sure which one it was, not truly, but I do have an idea.
There is no combination of discipline, motivation, and inspiration that will ever be able to take the place of making sure you’re taking care of yourself. And while I thought I was doing a good job, what it came down to was this: for months I used my writing as a way to distract myself from my anxiety and depression rather than taking steps to take care of myself in the long run. And in no way am I saying that I shouldn’t have spent the last three months doing exactly what I did – I made wonderful strides and, like I said, I learned so much from it all. I just…also should have been actively making sure that I was taking care of my brain too, and not just making sure it was in tip-top shape to get some work done. It doesn’t matter how good my hustle is if all I have to show for it at the end is the crash and burn. If my hustle doesn’t include my self-care, then it isn’t hustle at all. It’s just pushing myself too hard. It’s disrespecting myself. It’s disrespecting my craft, and my work.
I’m still proud of the fact that I wrote and began rewriting a novel in three months. I’m still pretty proud of it so far. For now, I’m taking a break from it while I begin to play with another project, and this time I’m making sure to build in my self-care around my work. Making sure that my brain is getting the rest and nurturing it needs in tandem with seeding my creativity. That every part of me is getting what it needs as much as I am possibly able to give it, and learning that even being “disciplined” can go wrong if you’re not prioritizing the right way.
It’s been a hard few weeks – but I’m working to make sure that the next few will be better. I hope yours are, too.