Poetry, Prose, & Peonies

I’ve been writing since I could hold a pencil. When I was little I would scribble notes, diary entries, poems, and stories wherever I could fit them. I would write on scrap papers, napkins, and on one occasion, an old t-shirt. I threw away most of these scribbles either because of deterioration, or moving, or the “minimalist purge” I went through in high school. 

I regret throwing away these emblems of my former self and vowed to never do it again. Even the worst of my writing captured me in a moment of my life. I stripped myself of the ability to view just how tenacious and consistent I was. 

Consistency is one of the most difficult, yet most important, parts of being a writer. Ever since my car accident two years ago I’ve found myself in a state of suspension. All my training, all my hard work seemed to be tossed to the wayside of depression and physical pain. The truth is, I gave up a little bit. I graduated from university, struggled to find a decent job, and felt myself coiling into that dark place many of us fresh graduates find ourselves in. 

Many of my friends and colleagues found excellent jobs at excellent institutions with excellent pay, and I was exhausted, depressed, and sending out application after application without even a rejection letter to quell my anxiety. The real world was harsher than I wanted to admit. 

While my idealism may have been naive, I also think I was living in a delusion curated during my university years. Don’t get me wrong, many professors warned me that it’s rough out here but I was stubborn and determined to “make it.”

I suffered immense writer’s block after my accident. I finally found a way around it. I finally found a way to force myself into writing anything. The problem became writing my novel. I’d spend too much time away from the project, too much effort into researching, and not enough energy into simply writing. 

I’m honest enough to admit that I’m still struggling, and writing this book often feels like a chore rather than a passion project. But every time I think about it, every time I talk about the characters, the story, the real-life mysterious death that inspired it, I know the passion is still there. I can’t stop thinking about this story and I hate that I’m not writing it. 

I then asked myself why?

The short answer: waiting for inspiration. To quote the eloquent Sam Montgomery AKA Hilary Duff, “waiting for you is like waiting for rain in this drought; useless and disappointing.” 

I know better than to sit aimlessly and wait for inspiration to rain down on me like a spring from the heavens. Every great writer has given this advice over and over again, “write consistently.” I read Stephen King’s On Writing and there is an entire chapter dedicated to his writing practice. I’ve even had entire seminars specifically designed to help us develop our own writing routine. 

Did I listen? Sure, when I had the pressure of deadlines and grades hanging like a guillotine over my head. But once I drifted from the institution, I also drifted from my practice. I gave in to the cavernous depression and mounting anxieties. I allowed my inner critic to become the central voice in my head. Like droves of other writers, I allowed myself to fall victim to waiting for inspiration despite the numerous professionals who warn against that very phenomenon.

There’s a secondary layer to the difficulties I’ve been facing. I refused to acknowledge the other forms of writing I was doing. I may not have written towards my novel, but I wrote in my journal, created scores of poetry, reviews, and other blog posts. I didn’t acknowledge that writing is writing, even if it wasn’t directed towards the project I wanted to work on. I doubled down on self loathing by ignoring the work I did and then refusing to put my work onto my platforms.  

I got in my own way because I was not confident in myself.  I became scared to publish the things I did write, hesitant to click that button that would put my thoughts and feelings out for strangers to read. This trickled down the social media vine. I’ve seen so many creators publicly dragged, bullied, harassed, stalked, and forced to quit the thing they love the most: creating. I wanted so desperately for people to like my work that I forgot what got me to this point in my life. It doesn’t matter what people think; it matters that I love my work. It matters that I bring integrity, information, and insight to the forefront of my writing. 

The building blocks of a writing routine are quite simple, consistency and confidence. Both of these things boil down to one word: practice. A healthy writing practice is one that takes experimenting to find.

I used to think I was a night writer, staying up until the weary hours of the morning running on nothing but steaming coffee and willpower. That may have worked in university, but it’s also not a sustainable model. My health deteriorated and I knew that something needed to change. I moved to a new country, started eating healthier, taking longer walks with my dogs, and yet I still wasn’t writing. I may have found a way to start grappling with the physical aspect of my writer’s block, but underneath it I found a mental one. 

I cannot succeed in the career I have chosen if I’m unwilling to work as hard for myself as I would for someone else. I would place everything on the line for companies that didn’t care for my wellbeing. I worked late whenever asked, tried to innovate and adapt to any situation, and gave my all to minimum wage jobs. There presented my third problem. I didn’t see the value in my creations because they weren’t generating income. 

I’ve never been a particularly money-hungry person. I work to sustain myself, to pay my bills just like the rest of us. What I hadn’t realized about my trajectory in university was this thirst to “make it big.” But just like my coffee and willpower, that model of thinking is not sustainable. I decided to become a writer out of a love for the craft, not because it’s a lucrative field. 

I am a writer. My stories don’t have to be adapted into a movie. I don’t have to be the Suzanne Collins and Colleen Hoover’s of the industry. I can’t be SuCo or CoHo. I’m Gabby Alysia and my stories are my own. Without my uniqueness, I will never dominate at anything other than feeling sorry for myself. 

The harsh reality is that ‘no’ is more common than ‘yes.’ Stephen King’s debut novel Carrie was rejected by 30 publishers before finding its home. Before facing the wrath of publishing houses, he subjected the first few pages to the garbage bin. If not for his wife, Tabitha King, we may never have read the iconic pig blood scene that quickly became a canon moment in fiction.

As the writer of my own destiny, I decided to change my inner narrative. I moved my whole life across the Atlantic in search of spinning my dream into a reality and I refuse to waste the opportunity in front of me. So, today I signed up for a course. Sure, I have a degree in writing, but there is always more to be learned. Sometimes in order to go forward, you have to take a few steps back and then try again to gain the right vantage, the right momentum. I’m hoping this course will help me reshape my writing practice and give me a chance to step back and start again. 

It’s okay to feel discouraged sometimes. I’m human and I can’t help the waves when they come. But I decided to stand up and try again. I picked up my pen and it felt both foreign and familiar in my hand. That feeling, sandwiched between the known and unknown is where my power lies. 

My problems were clear. My consistency, confidence, and motivations were all messed up. I stopped writing for enjoyment out of a desperation to monetize myself. I allowed the nos to get to my head, and I stopped writing every day because of that. Instead, I should have channelled my inner baby-Gabby, so desperate to write that I’d scribble on napkins and t-shirts. Perhaps if I kept my old drafts, I would have a physical reminder of that passion.

Am I writing every day now? No. Am I trying to change that? Well, you’re reading this aren’t you?

Header Photo by Ian Schneider on Unsplash