Lately, whenever I sit down to write, I am often overcome with fatigue—a deep sense of exhaustion and apprehension. Maybe this is because writing is dangerous, and extremely hard, and can take me down a rabbit hole toward memories I’d rather not revive… Maybe the fatigue knows something. Maybe it knows that language can never fully capture that thing I want to say, and whatever story I spin, it will lack some of the grandeur of the world inside my head… The beautiful ache of an original impulse may get lost in the telling, and something darker or more complicated might emerge, and it might hurt people, and it will most certainly be painful—an arduous journey to a place I’m not sure I want to visit…
Is it any wonder that writing feels exhausting, and terrifying? And yet, we do it anyways. Are we writers gluttons for punishment, or does the act itself drive us to take risks? The impulse to capture an authentic sliver of experience, however small, feels deeply grounding. The possibility of emotionally touching others brings a sense of deep connection, and hope. The scary pleasure of losing (and finding) ourselves in the creative process keeps us open, and alive…
So, I will dare to plunge in, despite my hesitancy, fatigue and fear. Despite that niggling voice of futility, the shadow of failure looming, I will take the next step, and then the next. I’ll put the next few words on the page, because I have to.
Hi Dori, I know this feeling well… I’m finding tremendous support lately from reading Liz Gilbert’s Big Magic. I’ve read it 3 times in the last 6 months. And I’ve been writing fiction again after a two year break. I’m curious if you’d like it. Best, Anna
I am moved by your courage in the face of trepidation and your commitment to find a way to be grounded and establish the bond of our shared vulnerabilities. I recall E.M. Forster’s
famous words, “Only Connect.”