resistance in the materials

I realise it's become so cerebral. So sterile. My writing, I mean. All intellect and no soul. Nothing visceral. And it's probably a semi-conscious thing. I remember at the beginning of 2014 I told myself I wouldn't write sad things - or excessively depressing and mopey things anymore, because that's what my blog was becoming - just an accumulation - an assortment of woes and lamentations. All it did was bring a person down. So I decided at the start of 2014 to try and break the self-perpetuating cycle by trying to write optimistic things, or interesting things instead.

I developed an aversion to the old style, which was to write the thing that occurred to me - to go along with my first instinct. I got into the habit of telling myself 'it's ok, things aren't that bad.' and getting myself to believe it through sheer force of will. I was going for hopeful. And it worked - more or less. I began to see the world in a different way - began to enjoy things more and be open to seeing the silver lining, the brighter side of every situation. By changing the way I wrote, I changed the way I looked at the world. I succeeded in becoming a less sad person. But in doing so, my writing stiffened up a bit.

I now approached the exercise warily, with a kind of apprehension. But perhaps worst of all, I subjected it to an agenda. I subjugated it to my will - which means whenever I wrote - or most of the times that I sat down to write something - I was always half-conscious of - does this sound too depressing? Am I falling into old habits again? Is this really the person I want to be?

I became suspicious of my own writing - so I muzzled it. Neutered it. Chained it to the swing. And now I look back and am surprised to find that it has no soul. That it isn't visceral... or moving. To find it contrived and overwrought and self-conscious and almost wholly taking place in my mind. That it doesn't dance.

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A lot of these things are very removed from reality. Went to Bristol. Didn't write about that. Went to Italy, Nope, no record of that experience at all. It all takes place in my brain. But that's damaging - because reality is what we have in common. If I write about real life - my mom, my grandparents, the patients I meet in clinic - if I write honestly and unfiltered - that's the stuff that resonates - that has the potential to make you feel something.

It's been longer than I can remember since I wrote something that I could look back on and be surprised and impressed with. The really good things you write are the things you don't believe you could have written. They're too good to have come from your head. They seem to have come from elsewhere, descended from the heavens and fell into your lap.

In 2010 and 2011 I wrote without premeditation, just as and when I pleased and whatever I felt like writing at the time. Starting from 2013 I decided that that wasn't good enough. That it produced some pretty lines sure, but nothing meaningful, or life changing. Just the occasional one-liner and pithy aphorism. I knew I had to push myself if I was ever going to get better. So I started writing with an end in mind. I started saying to myself, 'okay, unless it's this good, I'm not going to publish.' I started setting standards for publication and any post that I judged to fall short of that standard became a draft, until I could redeem it.

I started having expectations for each post. What I wanted it to be - what I wanted it to achieve. Whereas before it was a matter of - sit down in front of a screen and see what comes out. No aim or goal or standard to meet. It turned the writing into a performance. Put pressure on me to produce something worth publishing. And did it make me a better writer? Did it make me less honest with my writing?

I checked some statistics. My old blog boasts 581 published posts and 100 drafts. This current blog consists of 500 published posts and 580 drafts. My process has changed a lot, but I still value, or regard as most precious those pieces where I sit down, not knowing what will happen and somehow surprise myself. Where I do not fall short of expectations. Those are the few worth reading.


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The dangerous thing about writing with a word processor is that you can see the whole of it as you write. That sort of perspective can paralyse a person. The big picture is important but you have to be up close to paint. When you write with pen and paper you focus on each word and letter and stroke as you create it. As it materialises. It pulls you in - draws you into the moment. The present act of turning your thoughts into something finite and tangible. You have no time to look back on what you've just written and think 'maybe this wasn't such a good idea.' You're too busy writing. Professional athletes perform well because they don't have time to think - or maybe have learned not to think - about their performance. One of the most hazardous habits while writing is to think about how it looks or sounds, while you're writing it.

By trying to build up my writing into something bigger, something great and complex and difficult, maybe I was forcing it into a posture or mould it never felt comfortable or natural in. It doesn't take a genius to see how if I viewed my writing as simple or sentimental or basic and unsophisticated, that it meant the person writing it couldn't be any better. And I didn't want to be simple or easily understood. Maybe part of the problem with my writing is with my image of myself. Trying to reconcile the simple, silly, unimpressive parts of me with the things I admire. The dark, tortured and complex things. How to allow them enough room to co-exist.