Retreating into reading
[Currently sipping Organic Cloud & Fog Green tea from Bird Pick Tea & Herb in El Monte, CA]
I’m doing it again, retreating into reading. I’d kicked off last year with the goal of focusing on my writing, even taking up a daily journal practice, but inevitably as the year closed out, I fell back into a rhythm of ravenous reading. I did still manage to write daily but with severely less care.
Now that 2024 has almost crossed the two-month mark, I’ve noticed my habit of indulging in others’ words hasn’t let up. Perhaps it has even gotten deeper seeing as I’m pacing towards 50 titles by the end of February. How’d I let this happen?
Maybe it’s because I had declared that this would be a year to get something published by someone other than me or someone I already personally knew. It was bold enough of a target that I’ve found myself backing up, sputtering excuses as to why I’m not working deliberately and passionately toward it. I’ve been rationalizing that writing is writing is writing, and writing takes energy. So of course I wouldn’t have the brainpower to use for personal pursuits after writing for other people (I’ve picked up a handful of content-creation-oriented gigs recently). Of course I needed to take a breather after my Sapid 100 project - it was creatively draining, no? Of course I haven’t worked anything out; nothing has quote-unquote happened in my life worth telling at length yet.
There’s also the “I’m not ready!” excuse, allowing me some solace in that my digging into others’ works and studying writing guides is additional research. I tell myself all the time that I must finish the books that I find terrible because knowing what bad writing looks like will stave off mistakes. If I think hard enough about why I don’t like a book and analyze its faults, I can avoid repeating the author’s missteps. Inevitably, though, my brain will then point the finger at me and in a mocking voice cry, “Well look at you being a critic while they were being published.”
So it’s cowardice then. There’s fear here.
Fear of rejection - what if others actively don’t like it?
Fear of mediocrity - what if I’m a bad writer and/or storyteller and people aren’t interested?
Fear of excellence - what if I start getting unwanted attention?
Fear of failure of self - what if what I have to say is meaningless?
Fear of writing for the wrong reasons - what if I don’t like it in the end or why I wrote something?
I already have trouble posting to my own website, worrying over many of these same things. Telling myself that people share things with less craft and care isn’t enough to spur me into action. Reminding myself that I’ve read plenty of memoirs where “nothing happens” doesn’t churn up memories about moments in my life I find significant enough to mention (though I’m sure they exist).
I wonder then why it doesn’t feel enough to just write for myself. Why wouldn’t I find satisfaction in that? The hypocrisy taunts me, as I often tell others that not everything must have a productivity-bent purpose to contain worth. It is enough for a person to be and for art to exist. And yet here I am bothered by the notion of writing for the sake of writing. The tug towards having justification nags in the corner of my brain as a peripheral worry that I occasionally swat at like a gnat but always end up finding landing on my arm when least expected or requiring brief sudden violence to rid. But it comes back.
I think I need to just do it and see.
My mom recently pointed out to me that she noticed I read a lot. I’ve been posting collages on Instagram of book covers of books I’ve read monthly, and she’s become more internet-savvy lately. She saw a recent roundup post. First, she wanted to know if I was spending all my money on books. I assured her the library was my source. After a breath of relief, she then commented that since I’ve read so much, it wouldn’t be long until I could write my own book, right? Because I’d know enough at some point and should do something with it. Huh.
She’s probably right. I’ve been called out. The excuses need to go. Time to dig a little deeper.
(But I obviously won’t stop reading. People are fascinating!)