Writing about not-writing
Or
Feelings about indiscernable feelings
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This blog has 147 partly-finished drafts. Some of them just need another round of editing, but I haven't done any of that editing in the last couple weeks.
In itself, the not-writing isn't a problem. The problem is that I don't know why I'm not writing.
Why is not knowing a problem?
Something shifted and that's fine - things shift. The problem is I can't name it. I can't point to the day, the conversation, the thing I read, the thing I didn't say, and go "Ah! There, that's what did It! Now it makes sense!"
The desire to write just seems to have quietly slipped out without leaving a note.
And I hate that. I want things to make sense.
Some of you are familiar with this difficulty identifying and naming your own emotional states. It's called alexithymia, and it's not uncommon among autistic people.
It's not as difficult for me as it once was. I had a great therapist who helped me start working out many emotional states by paying more attention to how they felt in my body and pattern recognition, but I still struggle with it.
So maybe this whatever-it-is has a name or a cause and you just can't work it out. Why is this a problem?
I realize intellectually that most people don't know their own minds as well as they believe, but this is still genuinely distressing for me.
So I'm trying something different.
Instead of perseverating on it and fruitlessly trying to puzzle it out, I'm treating it like weather.
My internal states aren't required to have discernible causes right now. One doesn't interrogate and integrate a storm, one just...waits for the storm to pass.
That's weird.
Nah. If you like fiction, you've probably read this move a hundred times without noticing it for what it was.
"Loneliness crept in around the edges of the evening."
"A wave of nostalgia washed over him."
"Despair took hold and wouldn't let go."
"Something dark moved in beneath his ribs."
"A sadness settled over me."
"A wave of grief hit her."
These metaphors externalize emotional states despite the fact that emotional states are not external.
In these literary examples, the emotional state arrives from outside, does its business, and, like a storm, eventually passes. The self stays intact underneath the storm, and the self is the ground the weather moves across.
So...why is this helpful?
"I am anxious" makes anxiety a trait baked into you. "Anxiety is visiting" makes it a guest. Guests eventually leave. We want to make it easier for the guest to depart.
The stoic Epictetus draws the line between what's actually up to you and what isn't, then dumps most emotional states into the second bucket, externalizing them.
You don't choose whether the storm rolls in, says Epictetus, but you can choose whether you stand in it screaming at the sky...or go get the fucking umbrella.
To externalize a state doesn't excuse it or ignore it. Ideally, I'm acknowledging this thing is real, it's happening to me, but it is not me.
I'm not "a person who has stopped writing." I'm a person currently experiencing weather that precludes writing. This storm, however, will pass.
Doesn't that give up agency and promote passivity?
Yeah, there's a trap on the other side of this. "I can't help it, it's just how I am" is a coward's version of the metaphor.
Real weather changes, and that's the point of the analogy. If you use "it's just weather" to justify never checking the barometer again, you've stopped using the metaphor and started hiding behind it.
But if I can regard this as weather, I don't have to treat a drop in output as a verdict on my character, my discipline, or my ability to write.
147 drafts sitting there isn't an indictment. They're just waiting for the storm to pass.
I don't know why the desire to write left or when it will come back. The reason is probably knowable, but not to me, not right now.
So I'm going to take a break from the idea that this is a problem I can think my way out of.
I'll get back to writing when the storm has passed.
đź’™












