For the past month, I have opened my laptop on numerous occasions with the intention of writing. And each time, about 37 minutes later, I would break out of my dissociative state to the awful realization that instead of putting words to the page, I had learned that another celebrity couple I don’t care about is divorcing, that an influencer had just finished up another international brand trip, and that I apparently need a life-changing productivity app. What I had not done was write a single paragraph. Attention, it turns out, is not something I’m currently in possession of when it comes to writing. At least not for longer than three and a half minutes.
But distraction is only half the story. The other half—the far more stubborn, embarrassing half—is doubt. I’ll get a flicker of inspiration, manage a sentence or two, and then the chorus begins: this is boring, this is pointless, nobody cares, you’re wasting everyone’s time. I send the piece to the drafts folder. I tell myself I’ll return to it and make it better, sharper, cleverer. Of course, I never do.
Sometimes I can’t even open the folder because the sight of all those abandoned titles feels like evidence in a trial where I am both the defendant and the judge. Guilty on all counts of self-sabotage.
And here’s the maddening thing: doubt disguises itself as taste. I tell myself I’m being discerning, that I only want to share my “best” work, that it’s noble to delete instead of publish. But it isn’t noble. It’s cowardice dressed up as quality control. Taste is important, yes, but so is momentum. And momentum is impossible when you kill every idea before it has a chance to grow legs.
Which makes it all the more depressing when I notice my own relentless doubt more than anything else.
Even now, as I’m writing this, I want to abandon it. My inner critic is on full blast. But, I’m telling myself to go on and keep typing. Maybe the critic can be background noise, something acknowledged but not obeyed (kinda like the ego). The critic can sit in the corner muttering while I write the next clumsy sentence. And then another. And another. If the choice is between writing something imperfect and writing nothing at all, surely the imperfect thing is better company.
I’m reminded of Brené Brown and her love for Theodore Roosevelt’s speech “Man in the Arena”.
It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.
— Theodore Roosevelt, the ‘Man in the Arena’ excerpt from the ‘Citizenship in a Republic’ speech, April 23rd, 1910
Roosevelt is referring to peanut gallery in this context, but I think it can be applied to oneself. Our own inner critics are sometimes the loudest, and for the past month mine has been screaming.
So here’s what I’m telling myself: maybe the goal isn’t to banish distraction forever or to silence doubt completely (both impossible, saintly tasks). Maybe it’s just to keep stealing back small moments of focus, even in the presence of that nagging voice.
And if nothing else, at least I paid attention long enough to write this.
xo,
liv
P.S. Sincere apologies for the posting break. I’ve missed you all. :)
Nobody is going to write what you want to write better than you. It's unique to you and is already valid because of this. I think Neil Gaiman said this.
It helps me to publish my work anyway (and the fact that I have 3 subscribers, one of which myself).
I have a draft folder in my blog too, and yeah, sometimes it piles up a bit. But this is the thing: Writing this way has a lot to do with journaling, and you just simply cannot share everything you journal about with strangers, not even with your friends and family. I'm actually thankful I haven't posted everything I write about.. I would have lost some audience for sure. I don't take it as a quality control thing, sometimes we need to put words down just to get rid of the anxiety the topic gives us, but also be wise enough to not be misunderstood or labeled as a hater, or whatever. And also, quality will always be more important than quantity. Keep up the good work. (PS: If someone knows how to import a blog from Wix to Substack, please let me know, thanks!)