Not Being Able To Write a Book

Not Being Able To Write a Book

2 min read

I'm writing this book. And yes, I'll just call it 'this book.' Because, well, because sometimes you don't need a reason. But it's challenging to write this book that I'm writing.

I wish I was more superficial, at least in the first phase of writing this book. I am a deep diver, whenever I write, I get stuck in the weeds of details to the point of narcissism. The details have me running errands all over town, when I'm not picking up their dry cleaning, I'm sweeping floors while uttering codependent compliments about their appearance.

I have been working on 'this book' for over five years, and I have found myself stuck in a detrimental loop. Whenever I start writing this book or work on it, I become like a housefly banging my head against the glass window trying to get out towards the sun. I see it right there, the sun, I should be able to get there this second, because it's right there. But I am unaware of the glass window, and my rationality of dealing with this glass window, is convincing myself that it isn't there, and I should keep trying to get out to the garden and the sun based on that rationality. So it is not surprising that I get a mental heart and headache trying to write this book.

I would love to say, that I have had enough of this cycle, and even if I had, that doesn't get me through the glass window. Having had enough of something is a feeling that carries a degree of entitlement. Because if I have had enough, I should not have to deal with this anymore. Having had enough should get me through the window. Right?

At this moment, I would love to say that these attempts have brought me some experience that can enable me to write this book. I don't see it at the moment, that trying to write this book has helped me in any way - to write it.

In the morning, I wake up with a smile, excited to start writing. Then the world goes black, and in the afternoon my enthusiasm has become a naked corpse on a foreign rocky shore being hammered by noisy waves of self loathing.

But when I criticize myself relentlessly, something happens. At first, it's like a tall judge wearing a cape standing in front of me, cloaking me from seeing the immense beauty of my imperfection. What makes me keep trying is that once in a purple moon I see the reflection of my rough edges, suggesting proof of life, of authenticity and substance.