Sometimes it is painful to write so you stop doing it to avoid the pain. Instead you write…but other things. You work on articles for blogs of other people and businesses, you take copywriting jobs and produce all sorts of texts for money. So where’s the problem? Why one kind of writing brings you suffering whereas the other one gives you money. How can you be able to do one and not the other? They are both a form of creativity and have something to do with words, which you love, so it should be alright, but what’s the intention?
The motivation for writing as a job is quite obvious – the money, who doesn’t want or need more of it? But when it comes to fishing out thoughts from the depth of your soul and preparing a wordy dinner with your findings, it is more sophisticated, not everyone wants to eat it, at times not even yourself. So instead you take on more writing jobs to satisfy your urge to write and neglect the need to speak your truth. The more you hide from it underneath the texts which you’ll never get credit for, the safer but also the sadder your life gets.
It takes guts to write a piece and sign it with your name. It takes patience, time and self-empathy to write a book. It requires undressing in front of everybody when you decide to publish it. This entire creating adventure is getting more difficult than I thought and I am beginning to question its purpose. I am suddenly stuck between addiction to typing everyday and a blocking self-doubt about any value of my work in the outer world besides my screen. I feel like a ping pong ball hitting the walls in a long narrow corridor. Only little light comes through and I can’t see anyone who’d possibly pass by to pick me up.
What’s the remedy for this pain? I can’t think of anything else but…writing. Maybe what doesn’t kill you makes you an artist?