Is this a thing for everyone?
Writing creatively catches me up in a depressive fever. There are times (although not exactly often) when I take joy in the act of writing and when the things that I have written make me feel proud and/or good about myself. But usually I am living in a shadow of recriminations, self-doubt, and stress that I’m spread to thin and not doing anything right. It puts me in a pretty constant black mood, easy to irritate or inflame but also guilty about my irritability and questioning whether any creative project is worth the negative effects my attitude has on people around me as well as myself.
This emotional storm was one of the reasons I stopped writing two years ago when I went on a self-imposed hiatus. I have definitely felt good about the fact that I’ve gone back to writing these last five months. The hiatus made me sad and the novel I was trying to write then made me sad (or maybe a bigger, more malaise-y kind of upset than sad) for going unwritten. Now I’m sad that the fact that I’m writing it doesn’t mean it’s any good, and that I’m not doing it justice.
I’m not sure how much of it is to do with my job–maybe the fact that my job in particular is hard to juggle at the same time a creative writing endeavor, which creates a sense that I’m not doing either well. Or maybe better to say it creates a terrible resentment toward my job if I prioritize that over my writing, and a terrible guilt toward my job when I prioritize my writing.
I have often come back to the having one’s cake conversation in my head. I have a job I love and that I’m good at. It’s something I still want to be doing in 20 or 30 or 50 years. Which is why throwing it aside to focus on a creative project just seems … foolish, selfish, short-sighted, privileged, silly. Especially when the project is of extremely questionable merit. But how much of that is because I’m not applying myself whole-heartedly or doing right by it? Am I actually missing my true calling?
No one can answer this question for me. I know that. I can’t answer it for myself, although I really need to try harder to do so.
I am curious though if other people go through this. My co-worker told me a few days ago that he never had these kinds of feelings; he never doubted that he would have a novel published someday. I asked him what the key to finding such confidence in sense of purpose. He snorted, told me to quit my job, sign up for an MFA, and spend two years reading and thinking about craft. I know he didn’t mean it the way I took it (he may even have been being facetious), but to me it sounded like a reminder that I didn’t deserve to write a book, because I hadn’t paid my dues to the process–which honestly resonated very deeply. It is something I have often thought about other people who think writing a book is an easy thing, a hobby.