I’ve been meaning to write for a long time now but have somehow managed to avoid it. I mean, not entirely. Part of what I do is copywriting, so it would be a hard sell if I didn’t actually do any of the words within the word that is supposed to describe what I do. It would be like a professional footballer saying that they don’t actually kick a ball, a painter never dipping a brush in paint, or a public servant whose only concern was bettering their own wealth. (Surely not?)
No, I do plenty of writing – but for other people. For clients. People who pay me to write for them. I must be half decent at it, too. I’ve been doing it for quite a while, now, and they keep coming back. And whilst they’re unquestionably all jolly nice people, I’m sure it’s not just out of charity, either. I mean, “His writing’s a bit s**t, but let’s keep paying him”, doesn’t really cut it when they’re trying to gain a competitive edge, does it?
And I genuinely enjoy it. I really do. I enjoy helping clients share their stories and services: of starting with a blank screen, researching, refining, and releasing their tidings (in theory at least) to a few billion people.
But, the kind of writing I’m talking about, is writing for me. This kind of stuff. Stuff with no real purpose other than the satisfaction derived from doing it. It could be a short(ish) Pondering for my site, or maybe a short story. I certainly spawn an idea for a proper book every now and then, not to mention the ones that have been simmering away for years… decades in some cases. You know, those book ideas that are all crusty around the edges like stodgy stews that have shrunken with overcooking. Once vibrant ideas that just never really got going.
But whatever type of personal writing I mean – I’m not doing it. Or I haven’t been. Until now.
I’m sure all of us have fantasy projects like that. Things that we’re going to do. Sometime. At some point over the horizon, in that perfectly organised and curated utopian future we all expect and feel entitled to. That’ll be it. Perhaps I should wait until I’m retired, and then I can become the prolific writing machine, I always knew lay dormant inside me.
Except, every retired person you ever meet, in response to the question, “How’s retirement going?” universally and perpetually trots out the same response: “Wonderful. But I honestly don’t know how I ever had time to fit work in!” Which is a good thing, surely? It suggests that, far from the yesteryear image of the retiree slowly desiccating into the fabric of a Shackleton’s high seat chair, life after decades of toil, appears to be largely full of activity, vitality and well, exactly the same time management challenges that seem to be the scourge of modern working life.
Although, thinking about it, perhaps if retirees weren’t perpetually saying, “I honestly don’t know how I ever had time to fit work in!”, they might have more time to fit something else in.
Whatever – as we older middle-agers still think kids still say. Which they don’t. They rarely even resort to the spoken word anymore. Not to our kind, anyway. They just give you that look which suggests their face is buffering.
But I digress. The point is, waiting until retirement, doesn’t seem to be the solution to overcoming my perceived writing block. And not one of those flouncy, arty-farty creative writing blocks that authors of a certain ilk wear like a badge of honour. My block is a perceived lack of time. Like so many, I’ve convinced myself that it’s just too difficult to fit my very scalable projects, into my already busy life.
But this week, two chance conversations with completely unconnected friends reminded me, just what b******s this kind of thinking is.
One friend is a brilliant wedding photographer but has been out of the game for a while due to a whole mele of health and family reasons, and she’s struggling to find her creative fizz for upcoming bookings. Another friend, a fantastic designer, having not long relocated a few hundred miles from where he had lived, has just set up a business networking group. He’s keen about the project but having described himself as ‘the worst public speaker in the world’, is somewhat anxious about his newly self-inflicted role as a frontman.
Both of them, exceptionally talented people in their respective fields. Both convinced that the next thing in front of them is going to be incredibly difficult. Physically, emotionally, and sleep-stealingly so.
I hear this a lot when listening to clients I’m coaching. (Yep – I do that, too.) Whatever it is, some, thing has become so challenging and complicated, and heavy, it’s as if it’s become a swirling mass that’s generating its own atmosphere. An atmosphere largely composed of a fusion of fear, inertia and avoidance.
The thing in front of clients (and this week, my friends), has seemingly become so unbelievably difficult, it feels like they’re trying to move forwards but with the handbrake on.
So, I asked my friends, what I always ask clients: what would this look like, if it were easy? And by easy, I don’t mean that you can somehow reduce the technical knowledge needed for a medical exam or get around having to build endurance to run a marathon. It’s not about making something easier or about short cuts. I mean, how would it feel if it were easy? How would other people respond? If you knew for certain, it would be a success, what would that feel and look like? And, potentially, from a practical point of view, what could be done to make the task feel lighter, less intense, and more achievable?
And when you begin to think this way and start seeing the thing in a more diluted context, it’s amazing how quickly your mind can begin to manifest a calmer, more enjoyable approach to said thing. Often even doing a 180o flip, and actually reconnecting with the enjoyment that originally drew you to the thing, in the first place. I mean, how many times have you faced what felt like a gargantuan challenge or situation, done it and then thought, ‘I quite enjoyed that’?
Probably fewer times than Tump has lied but more than once, I’d wager.
Reality seldom mirrors perception.
Where is this weave going? Let’s get back to me and my personal writing – or more accurately, the lack thereof. In the spirit of physician heal thyself, I asked myself, “What would writing just for me look like, if it were easy?”
It didn’t take long for me to come up with an answer: just write a short piece, with no particular goal, on no particular subject, in a tone that feels comfortable for me. But most importantly… just bloody start.
So, dear reader, if you’re still with me, you have just digested my first return to personal writing in the form of this article. No trees were uprooted during the making of this Pondering and certainly no dents were put in the Universe. It’s hardly a novel and I doubt David Mitchell will be quaking over his typewriter about being usurped for quick wit and sideways observations on life.
But so what? It’s a start, and I enjoyed it. Happy days.
And you know what? It was pretty easy. Or at least, it was nowhere near as difficult as I thought it would be. The novel may well be some time off, but my return to personal writing has begun.
Whatever has become your thing, do what you can to try and make it look easy, folks. It doesn’t have to be as difficult as our minds would have us think.
Image: Pillie Kersi via Pexels