There’s an essay I’ve been chipping away at here and there for months. Far too many months at this stage. The amount of work I’ve done maybe represents half a day, maybe more. It has been a long drag, and the loner it goes, the more I feel I have to make myself write about what it covers.
Well, it’s at the editing stage, but you know. Anyway.
This is an odd thing. My lack of completion has a bit to do with self-doubt. I desire to write. I want to write. I desperately want to write and finish this piece. Is it good enough? Am I good enough? Do I have what it takes to actually write something of substance?
I know that I do and I know that it will be good enough for now, but I still question myself. I still think about the possibility of not being able to do the subject matter justice, and I think about what that means and how that will affect my writing going forward. I know it will be good enough, and I know that it is something that I will surpass as I keep working on being a better writer. As I keep on chipping away at improving and growing, and I know things will change. I know that I will change. Still, I have doubt.
I carry doubt like I carry joy and desire and love and and elation. I carry doubt and I wear it as a shirt that I outgrew years and years ago. I wear it heavy, and I wear it tight, and it feels uncomfortable, but I never take it off. I never resize, and I forget about it but it sits there and it presses down. It presses down on me, and then I remember that it’s there and I go to take it off but I can’t. I am compelled to stop trying and let it hold tight onto my body and stay against my skin, and I never shake it off. And it’s not a good thing to be carrying around as much as I do. One day I might learn. One day. If not to get rid of doubt, then at least to work better with it. Try and get it fitting in a better, less uncomfortable way.
So that’s part of it. Part of it is that, and part of it is that I’m now writing about feelings that have passed, that have left me… or at least linger in a way that they don’t anymore. I’m writing about something that isn’t “me” anymore. This isn’t the worst thing, of course. A lot of writing ends up historical, and I think that that’s a good thing. However, in this instance, I feel concerned too, as I’m being vulnerable in a way that, admittedly, I have been plenty of times, but this feels really naked in a way. It feels naked and uncomfortable, and I wonder if I have the honesty in me to be able to put myself out there in a way I haven’t in perhaps a while.
In all creation there is something of the creator that is put forward, whether they want to or not. Often it is something minimal and often it is a lot. It’s a range, and sometimes you’re aware and sometimes you aren’t, and in this case I am highly aware. I am highly aware of what I will be putting down, and I wonder if I can. I wonder if I can do that to myself, even if it turns out to not be that much.
I wonder about a lot of things, but here I will be writing about something that involves a lot of pain. I wrote about it a lot last year, and in this essay it’s nowhere near as much. I need to bear that in mind. It’s nowhere near as heavy and revealing as perhaps it feels to me right now, but last week would’ve seen nine years of a relationship I’m glad to be out of, and maybe it’s the timing that makes finishing the essay feel more difficult to me. I don’t know.
The context of the essay involves that relationship. Well, it involves the aftermath of being dumped, really, and I guess that in a way, even though I am in a far better and healthier situation now, and even though I’m seeing someone who has been much, MUCH better for me, it still hurts in a way. To dredge through the pain, so to speak. And maybe I can’t do it.
The problem here is that I have to.
I have an order of things that I need to do. I know I don’t, but here I need to as it feels right. It sort of tells a narrative, even though that narrative is very light, and that’s why I need to do this the way I need to do this. That’s why I need to get this essay done. I don’t know if I can, though.
I mean, I will. Of course I will. I desire to write and I desire to finish it, and I know that once it’s done, that’s fine. I just don’t know how comfortable I am with putting out a piece that feels quite vulnerable for me, even if I’m not saying too much. Maybe I’m saying a lot and I don’t realise it, maybe I’m not. I don’t know.
Writing about the hesitancy is turning into an essay of sorts, though very much a personal one. This isn’t the worst thing of course. Could be far worse. Could be far better, but could be far worse. But I’m spending more time writing words about a thing than working on the thing.
Sometimes we need to allow ourselves to be uncomfortable, especially if we are willing to work on something. Sometimes it is the best way forward, and sometimes it allows for better things to happen. I feel as though I should allow my discomfort to go to the side, and stop holding onto it, and get on with editing and publishing, and that’ll be that. And then I can do the next thing, which will hopefully happen faster. I don’t know until I actually finish and publish the essay, so even though I’m uncertain and hesitant about it; even though I’m uncomfortable with the vulnerability of it, I should finish and publish the essay.
Stupidity Hole 