Liar, liar, pants on fire
A cathartic word vomit
I call myself a writer.
But writing those words makes me a liar.
I can’t remember the last time I wrote anything of substance outside of the occasional subpar tweet. This fact is a painful truth because deep down in my core, I know that writing is my calling. I’ve seen glimmers of myself embracing my calling in the few short stories I’ve written and the compliments they’ve received.
But overall, I’ve ignored the pull.
Am I really a writer?
Almost a year ago, I started a new job. A “bridge” job to ease my financial woes and recoup some of the creative energy I was spending as a freelance copywriter. The plan was (is?) to beef up my savings and write a boatload before plunging into the self-employed waters once again. Sadly, I’m mentally drained at the end of every day, leaving no energy to do what I need to do.
Of course, these are bullshit excuses.
I’m in one hell of a fight with the Resistance. Steven Pressfield, the author of The War of Art, defines Resistance as “an energy field radiating from a work-in-potential. It’s a repelling force. It’s negative. It aims to shove us away, distract us, prevent us from doing our work.” The doubt, procrastination, and fear have kept me stuck for so long that I mourn the years of words that could have been put to paper had I fought the Resistance with more gusto.
A writer that walks away from the blank page is what the Resistance wants.
I have things I want to create and share. Stories that are begging to be written. When I hear that voice that tries to distract me, persuade me that I’m not good enough, and say that my calling is a useless endeavour, I’ll hear it.
But I won’t listen.
And I’ll flash a cheeky grin as I sit down to write.
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