Dear Writing
Dear Writing,
You and I have always had a complicated relationship. When I was a kid, my classmates would hide away in literature class, determined to do the bare minimum to get a passing grade. Me, not so much. I was drawn to you. I was addicted to reading what other people wrote, and I guess I wanted a little bit of that magic for myself. So while my peers hid, I hurled myself into you. Writing, you were my safe place, but more than that, you were fun.
Then I grew up.
People started to gossip about you. They whispered that if I wrote well, I could have it all. Wealth, status, fame. Alladat. But there was a catch. I couldn’t just write. I had to learn to be a proper online writer first. A plethora of rulebooks, style guides and how-to articles promised to show me the way. If I wanted to earn the right to be a writer, I had to Write Rightᵀᴹ. I had to follow the rules:
First, find a niche
Only write within your niche. Anything else is sacrilege
Publish consistently (but not too consistently, lest folks tire of your rambling)
Only write during a full moon
I choked down the rules and belched out words. It was time to Write Right! I started out with the productivity and habit niche (watch out, James Clear!) Things went well for a few articles, until I realized that writing about consistency while my life was a hurricane of instability was a major mindfuck. But that was my niche… And I had been telling folks how to stay consistent... So I had to keep writing, right? RIGHT? Turns out that you can’t split your mind in two for too long. I couldn’t preach consistency and live inconsistently any longer. Every time I sat down to write, I felt trapped. I felt like a fraud. Maybe I just wasn’t cut out to be a writer after all. I couldn’t Write Right, so I stopped writing.
Writing, I’ve gotta give you some credit. You never forgot me, even when I let you fade from my memory. You never stopped calling. For a few months, I ignored those calls, until one day you left me a voicemail with just five words - “Remember when writing was fun?”. It left me with three questions:
Who even sends voicemails anymore?
What kind of individual refers to themselves in the third person?
Writing really was fun. Whatever happened to that?
The third question stuck with me, and I began to reflect. I soon realized that writing started to suck when it became Writing. My love for writing withered when I imposed other people’s rules onto it. So I decided to start writing again. And screw Writing Right, I was gonna write my way. But what was my way? I hadn’t faced a blank page in so long. I started to question what I would do differently this time so I wouldn’t fail at writing. Then it hit me.
You can’t fail at writing, because writing is just thinking with your hands.
Dear writing, I’m done thinking about you. No more niches, no more prescribed cadence, no more approved methods. Maybe I’ll figure out those things one day, but for now, I’m happy to just write. It’s time to hurl myself back into you.
Love,
Joojo
PS: If eavesdropping on this love letter is making you contemplate your own relationship to writing, stop. The only way to truly Write Right is to write, right? So stop pondering and pick up your pen. It’s time to think with your hands.
