RACHEL’S RAMBLINGS

I started writing this in fall 2009 to gain clarity and insight, but then felt that publishing it might make my thoughts more real than if I kept them to myself … sort of an experiment in exposure. Before I could post it, though, I got sick and it became immaterial. Although my conclusion is no longer new – that is, I’ve been living out my decision for the past few months – I believe posting this now can still achieve my original purpose of reinforcing what is in my head.

Since I left my reporter’s job in St. Paul in 2006, I've been conflicted about my relationship with writing. I couldn't stop cycling through a series of questions: Should I pursue a full-time career as a freelance journalist? But then where do I start – trying to sell my writing, actually creating the product, or setting up and running a small business? What if journalism isn't really my thing and I should be spending my energies on other kinds of writing? But then what would I write and could I still make a living from it? What if I shouldn't even be writing at all? Then what do I do with myself?

My confusion was compounded with the fact that I enjoy many aspects of journalism and writing, like researching, meeting people and hearing their stories, learning, crafting articles that flow, communicating something difficult to people who wouldn’t otherwise get it, expressing myself.

Yet as I struggled for two months to compose the previous blog entry, I knew I had to figure out what it is about writing that makes it seem more onerous than washing a week's worth of dishes, by hand, by myself. With the exception of venting in my journal, words rarely pour from me. They usually have to be grappled out of me.

Why?

I finally realized one reason for this is that writing is, or at some point became, something that I should do. And feeling like writing is a duty, something I don’t really have a choice about, saps my energy and suffocates my creativity. Usually the only way I can then access any energy or creativity is by reminding myself that somebody is counting on me – the editor, my co-workers, the people I interviewed, readers.

When I read a book by Alfie Kohn that discussed the long-term effects of growing up within systems revolving around control/authority, I understood what was going on in my psyche. I was motivated to write only because I would receive a reward (praise, money) or avoid some punishment (disapproval, criticism). Even though I may truly enjoy writing, I rarely do it because something deep inside of me wants to or has chosen to. I don’t even know whether I can write if nobody has asked me to, is paying me to, or even cares if I do. And the problem is, the longer I write because of some extrinsic motivation, the further I erode my ability to develop intrinsic motivation, like writing simply for the sake of doing it.

Is it possible for me to write without feeling like somebody’s holding an axe to my neck? And where does this feeling come from anyway? After all, it’s not just writing that feels like a duty to me. This pressure has been with me through much of my life.

How come?

I believe North America’s dominant social order (capitalism) and religion (Christianity) generally make it difficult for people to develop a self worth such that we feel confident, are comfortable with our strengths and weaknesses, and treat both ourselves and others with respect, compassion, and empathy. Without an internal strength and belief in our innate value, we prop ourselves up with things that can provide external value, like degrees or possessions or children. (Some people prop themselves up in less socially acceptable ways, and I believe we are, in part, subconsciously driven to look down on these people because they expose our insecurity by not hiding their own.)

We need to be able to point to something tangible – an article we wrote, a car we bought, a person we raised – to prove we are important. After all, if we can’t physically prove our value, the social assumption is that we must be useless, lazy, and irrelevant. I haven't had the strong internal grounding needed to embrace society’s designation of me as nothing. So in 2007/2008, I started calling myself a freelance writer, hoping a title would help convince others that I was indeed a contributing member of society and my own household.

No wonder I dread writing. My worth as a person has become inextricable from my skill as a writer, especially once writing offered me the most likely path to success, affirmation, and financial compensation. If I fail as a writer, I won’t get respect, praise, or the means to live (the rewards). Nor will I have any proof, for others or myself, that I’m a valuable person.

What now?

So not only do I need to cultivate within myself reasons for writing – reasons like my own pleasure and enjoyment, the satisfaction of being authentic, the joy of being creative, or just because – I also need to develop a sense of identity and value that comes from inside me.

But then maybe all this is just hiding the truth that I am capable of writing only because I don’t want people to say I'm not pulling my weight, or because I want other people to think I'm successful, or because I need to leave my mark so that everything I am isn’t useless, or ... well, maybe I can write only if I am doing it for others. I know I can make something beautiful out of pieces I’m handed (editing has always come more naturally than writing), but can I make anything beautiful out of me?

The only way to discover that is by quitting commercial writing or dutiful writing. All my energy and creativity have been poured into attempts at developing a product, convincing myself that I should write, fulfilling someone else’s expectations, or proving that I am worthy of admiration and respect. What might happen if I can manage to release my energy and creativity from those bonds?