Inner Monologue

I reject the idea of “writer’s block.'' 

Perhaps it’s because my mind feels like a full load of laundry on a high spin cycle. Thoughts, observations, insights, ruminations; all squished together, sloshing around. There is always something on my mind. 

And I can always put it down on paper.

The more I’ve inquired about the idea of writer’s block, the more I realize that we’ve added a fancy name to a common disease. It’s like that friend who studied abroad in France, comes back, and insists on calling all bakeries “boulangeries.” As Liz Gilbert once said, all the reasons we come up with for not writing, for not manifesting our creative potential, are really just “fear in disguise.”

Well, my fear has become a master of disguise. 

It doesn’t tell me to not write. “Sure, put your silly little thoughts on paper! See if I care!” It watches amusingly as I scribble down ideas for future essays.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see it glancing smugly, leaning back, arms to its head. If looks could speak, their look would say “just you wait.”

I write a page or two. I start editing. Then, I freeze. A shadow casts from behind me, a whisper in my ear: 

“Good effort in writing this. But do you really think it’s worth sharing? Do you really think people will open your newsletter email over the latest Bed, Bath, & Beyond coupon for 20% off? I mean it’s 20%. In this economy?!” 

“Why are you using such trite metaphors? Who are you writing for? A 14-year old? Do they even read anymore, or did elaborate dances replace the written word?” (side note: Would Shakespeare twerk in modern day? Who knows).

“Keep working on it. But don’t publish. The woman you are into will read this and think ‘This guy has the eloquence of an orangutan and the lucidity of a busted headlight.’ One bad piece of writing and you lose your shot at everlasting happiness and love. Don’t blow it.”

“Also, what about that writer you admire? What if they stumble upon your essay, read three sentences, close the tab in disgust, and proceed to 4chan as a palate cleanser? Do you really want to be that foolish? If so, maybe sign your essay with this emoji at the end 🤡 . It would at least show self-awareness.”

“I know I sound harsh. But this is for your own good. Trust me. I’m not here to hurt you. I just don’t want to see you fail. I don’t like to see you suffer.”

I let fear assail me under the guise of comforting me with a nice heavy blanket, neglecting the fact that I’ve been wrapped so tight that I can’t move. 

I encounter the daily dissonance of knowing that if someone else said these things to me, I would think they are more rude than the people who don’t flush in public toilets (I mean, ???). Yet, when the voice emerges from within, I tolerate it and even thank it for the verbal punishment. Any time my friends share their salty inner monologue, I ask: “Would you let someone speak to you the same way you speak to yourself?”

The answer is always no.

Over the past month, I’ve been smothered—nay, paralyzed—by fear in disguise. I focused all my attention on writing the best essay I could write on metaphors, under the safety of being shepherded towards an acceptable product by an amazing mentor (shout out, Michael Dean). 

But all my other writing now sits in limbo. It’s just there. Unpublished. Languishing towards irrelevance. I wrote something inspired by Season 4 of Stranger Things—Vecna, Kate Bush, Eleven—all involved. It’s a bit dated now, isn’t it? 

I offer you no conclusive wisdom on how to disarm our fear in disguise. Maybe we give it a seat at the table and let it vent, as Liz Gilbert suggests. Maybe I find an old shoe box that I’ve kept around and just put it there (apparently Gen Z doesn't keep boxes for things they buy). I don’t know. 

What I do know is that creating brings me joy. And any time you find something that brings you constructive joy, not cheap dopamine hits like social media, you should hang on to those like Tom Cruise latching to an airplane in Mission Impossible (one of the most incredible stunts I’ve ever seen).

I still believe creation doesn’t exist without sharing. So creation is not only an act of manifestation, but also an act of generosity towards the world. Therefore, continuing to publish is a part of the joyful experience, even if that part of it is tempered by my inner critic trying to blanket me over and over. 

I was inspired to write this after watching this short video by Samba Films. This is the inner monologue we should have. I’ve played it many times over the past couple of weeks. Also, I’ve added the transcript below since it reads like a poem. Hope it serves you as well as it has served me.

a word to a few #creators #artists 

quick sharp and engaging

to get the most views comments and likes

but if that's not the goal

what if the goal is to create something

and to share it with people WHO want to see it

I put a piece of myself into this

and I'm entrusting you with it

not everyone but you

because you're patient and kind

and although the first 3 seconds were blank

you're still here

stop creating for an algorithm

telling you how to be for everyone

and when to be for everyone

when you're not built for everyone

you are Unique

you are layered

you are more than the hashtags

on the trending sounds

and when you post

and how many times you post your stories

create as such

create for the purpose of creating

and the right people will find your stuff

not the most people

but the right people

the people WHO will be inspired by it

the people WHOse days change because of it

the people WHO will change your life

because of it

they will find it

stay true to WHO you are

is my advice

what's the worst that could happen

you could look back one day

and be happy about the things that you've made

and see WHO you were