Writing: My Unexpected Medicine

Unearthing the reasons I put pen to paper, even when motivation disappears

Hello on this bright, beautiful day. The clouds have clustered around the foot of the mountain, a little bit like snow. The snow is almost entirely gone from the tops though; the clouds are drifting off into the vales. It feels a little more like spring.

I’m writing a slightly different thing today, more reflecting on my writing practice. What happens when you lose that ever-important motivation to do the thing you love doing? What happens when comparisonitis creeps in and sabotages best intentions? Maybe it will help you too.

---

I found myself in a bit of a pickle yesterday. My self-esteem had vacated the premises to god-knows-where, leaving me in a puddle of something that smelled like self-pity but looked like self-righteousness. It’s not very pleasant. It was only a puddle though, so there was no wallowing.

What never ceases to amaze me is how this stuff can spill out into other areas of life. You doubt yourself with work, and suddenly you can’t even decide on your car service because who qualified you to make that decision, can’t the mechanics, just let me drive the damn thing away. Every little thing becomes proof of the nasty narrative bouncing through your mind that you just aren’t good enough. Can’t decide what’s for dinner, well aren’t I useless. A friend meets another friend without you because they don’t like me enough. Might as well leave that admin that needs doing because I can’t even think straight right now, oh look another reason I’m a failure.

That narrative is nasty and insidious and relentless. It spills into everything. Imagine my horror when my writing got lumped into the list of things I’m not good enough to do. Well, shit, that short story needs writing. Now what?

Luckily, as I’ve gotten older and slightly better at recognising what’s happening (lack of taking care of my needs, over-committing, etc.), I’m better at diffusing this stuff.

So, I did what most writers do when they can’t write. I picked up my pen, and I wrote. About my writing. How very meta of me.

Word for word, here is what I wrote:

I’ve been finding things a bit difficult lately with writing. I can’t wait for Beth’s Spring Retreat. I want to mould my Substack into something more cohesive, but also want to just focus on my writing.

Am I getting pulled into comparison space? I think so. Let’s remind myself.

Why do I write?

To connect with myself and others.

What is my writing?

MEDICINE. For me. For others.

I write for its own sake. Not to practice.

Breathe & feel.

Not think.

Feel

Breathe

Be.

When I write my short stories, I am exploring, uncovering the story, not crafting it.

I then asked myself:

What has my journey been?

What am I grateful for?

Honestly just being a writer. It’s not even something to be grateful for - it’s just something I am.

With that, I bounced off into my happy little world of happy little words (trees?) and dove straight onto Substack to mould it…. I’d love to say I wrote the most incredible essay or short story ever. But no. My perspective had shifted. My soul felt settled.

So what’s the lesson here?

1. Writing is medicine. For me and sometimes for others.

2. I write for myself, first and foremost. I am a better person when I can write. It helps me in ways I can’t even express.

3. I write to connect, with myself first and others. This helps me not to fixate on the outcome.

4. I write not even to get better at it. I write for its own sake because it helps me make sense of things I didn’t even know I needed to make sense of (see point 2.) Also, it’s nice just to note down pretty things. Like the crocuses bursting out of grassy banks in the most unexpected places, a little colourful smack in the face that spring is on its way whether we’re ready for it or not (fairly certain we’re all ready and sick of winter and this bloody persistent rain).

5. Thinking about uncovering a story, excavating it, sits nicely and takes so much pressure off. Maybe it’s a bit woo for some, but I love it. The story is in me, I’m just dusting off the layers, wondering if that’s a leg bone or a big rock.

The final thing that really got me was the idea that I don’t feel grateful for being a writer. This one really threw me.

Don’t get me wrong. I am grateful that I have the time and space to write. I’m grateful my life is such that I can sit for an hour every day and write whatever the heck I want. I’m so grateful when I write something that I love myself, and then when I put it out into the world and other people like it too. I’m grateful I have uncovered the reason I write (how has it taken me this long to realise it?) and that Substack is here to help with that. I’m grateful to have the support of family and friends, and strangers halfway across the world.

But I couldn’t quite shape how I feel about being a writer into gratitude. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe I’m alone in this feeling. I can’t even properly express it! (Remedy: apply more writing, twice a day.) It’s like being grateful for being a kind person. It’s just something you are.

The whole point of this is how worthwhile it was to reflect on my writing, instead of just grinding through it. To go back to the point of it, of the act itself, and why I do it. The outcome doesn’t matter - whether that’s the physical thing (post, essay, short story, poem) or getting new subscribers or comments. The doing is what matters.

So go do what you do. For no other reason than that you love it and are a better person for doing it.

K x

A beautiful rainbow captured on a walk, my own photo.