So I’m trying to write a screenplay. And it’s difficult because I care a lot. And I’m stuck. And I feel like I’m running out of time. So I’m thinking of tattoo designs. And I’m cutting out inspiring quotes for my walls. And I’m driving to Whole Foods because I really need a green smoothie right now.
NOW Back to the computer! Before no one cares, before the idea is stolen, before the idea itself turns out to be shit, before I expire like milk or groupons or beanie babies! Surely my relevancy won’t last, surely I must get this done now, today, what the hell am I doing with this smoothie right now?! I’m dying! Now write it god dammit, attack! Attack! Attack!
You know, I have this feeling that my creativity would eventually deliver if I really gave it space? If I turned my attention to something else? If I told myself “take all the time you need. It will still work. It will still move people. It will still be an accomplishment if it takes five years instead of six months. Live! Write! Thrive!”
But I want it to be great. And I want it to be mine. And I want that right now.
I guess I’m pretty obsessed with my “youth.” The potential it implies, It’s deliciousness just for its own sake. I want it to mean something that I produce this piece of writing NOW, while I’m 26, while THERE’S STIILL TIME. How ridiculous! Still time for what? To impress the shit out of everyone around me? I guess. But also maybe not. And also who fucking cares?
But then what about my producer? And my writing partner? And the people who are waiting to see what happens with it? Waiting to see if I do it? What about them? What would they think if they knew about the green smoothie? What would they think if they knew about the blog I started today because I had to write, but not about the thing I am “supposed” to be writing about, about everything else.
And now. After I’ve run myself around in circles I go back, deliberately, with slow, horrifying deliberateness, to my awkward, beautiful self-love journal. I look at the intentions I mapped out for my career, for my relationship with my body, for the relationship I want to eventually have with a man, all so vulnerable and nerdy and sincere. I watch inspiring videos online. I go back the treatment I wrote the day after the last reading when I felt so motivated and it all felt so possible, and I read it again and hope it rubs off. And maybe that’s the exact part of the process that I need to embrace. The boredom, the neurosis, the procrastination, and the deliberate return to the things I know are healthy even though I resent them.
My own humanity is the thing that I am wrestling with - my inability to write like a machine, to create on demand. To be excellent all the time. Which is maybe why it’s so difficult for me to access that humanity when I sit down to write right now. To write right, right now.
To write right at all.