Help! I don't want to write

why writing is an extreme sport

So, you don’t want to write?

Me neither. Let’s just have a cup of tea and talk about something nice. Something less stressful. Politics, maybe.

I wonder if you’re like me? Part of me loves the idea of not writing – this part of me sighs with relief at being told she doesn’t have to write anything. ‘YES!’, she thinks, ‘I don’t have to face it today. I can listen to a podcast and play a silly bubble pop game and eat crisps instead. LOVE that.’

But then, there’s the other part of me. This part likes crisps too, but she also likes writing. She likes having written. She likes the moment things fall into place and the story comes together. She likes sharing her words and finally getting to talk about the ideas she’s been living with in secret. She’s the part of me who needs to write, because thoughts don’t make sense until they’re on a page. The problem is, she’s completely terrified. And stuck. And exhausted. And disillusioned. It’s all too much.

Neither of these parts of me is actually writing. They’d prefer to leave it to the non-existent third part of the Holy Trinity of Alice, who is brave, motivated and always, always inspired.

Let’s say right now – if you’re someone who wakes up feeling pumped about writing and who finds the whole thing miraculous and wonderful… well, we like you and everything, we just don’t want to hear about it right now.

Most of us find writing hard.

It might be our dream job, but that doesn’t mean it will be an easy job. It’s work, whether you’re being paid or not.

Still, there is something that feels so wrong about struggling. How dare we complain about writing? It’s not like we’re going down the mines. Didn’t we choose this? Didn’t we always want to do this? Didn’t it used to come easily – joyfully, even? If writing is hard, surely something is wrong. And that wrong thing has to be us.

And so, we decide we’re broken, ungrateful, not cut out for this and we write even less. And the world misses out on what we have to say.

So what do we do?

If you want to stop writing, if, deep down, you know that it is not the creative outlet that will give you life, please take this as permission. You don’t have to write.

But, I think you do want to write, and I don’t want you to stop. I don’t want you to give up. I don’t want you to have to resign yourself to struggling through it as though it’s some purgatory that might prove worth it for the heavenly promise of publication. I truly believe that when we spend our time doing things that feel painful and arduous it harms us. I don’t want you to be hurt. I don’t want writing – this beautiful, wonderful thing – to leave you scarred.

There is a problem, but, I don’t think it’s you and I don’t think it’s writing.

I think it’s about what gets in the way.

ACCESS and SAFETY

There are two categories of things that stop us writing: access and safety.

For those of us who really want to write, but aren’t, the problem is access.

• We don’t have time.

• We live in a capitalist society that demands that we earn money and only the rich can succeed. We can’t afford to write.

• We experience disability, neurodivergence, chronic physical or mental illness or pain which makes writing consistently – or at all, really hard.

• We are part of a minoritized group who has to fight to get their voice noticed, let alone heard.

• We have caring duties for children, parents and disabled loved ones. They come first. (case in point: this newsletter is late because my eldest was in hospital and writing didn’t happen).

• We’re really bloody tired.

• We don’t know where to start, or what to write.

• We’re stuck on a tricky bit and don’t know how to get past it.

• The internet exists.

I could go on and on. These are all real blocks to writing and I don’t think that harsh, ‘get over it, get on with it’ advice is kind or useful. I have A LOT to say about improving these issues of accessibility, but that’s for another time. For now, please know that I absolutely recognise that barriers to writing exist, that they are serious and they are not your fault.

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What I would like to focus on for this series is what’s getting in the way for those of us who don’t want to write, even though we’re writers, even though it’s our calling.

The truth is, we don’t feel safe.

As humans, we have evolved for safety. We are meant to survive and so our brains are wired to keep us from the things that might harm or kill us. Our make-up means that we need to know we’re safe in a community – because early humans wouldn’t survive alone. And we need to know we will have sustenance – food, water, comfort, home. Our brains want to keep us alive… and to our beautiful amygdala, writing is an extreme sport.

When we pick up the pen, or boot up our laptop ready to write, chances are, your brain thinks you’re about to die. Yes, I’m being dramatic – but so is your lovely brain.

Our fears, when it comes to writing, are about our survival. Either we’re risking our place in the community, or we’re risking certainty about our sustenance. Sound ridiculous? Maybe, but are these thoughts familiar:

• What if my family reads this?

• What if my agent or editor hates it?

• What if it doesn’t sell?

• What if readers think it’s rubbish?

• What if it is rubbish?

• What if, by writing my truth, I’m risking anger from those more powerful than me?

• What if I accidentally say something awful and get cancelled?

• What if I’m actually bad at this writing thing?

• What if I am rejected or abused because of race, gender, sexuality, beliefs or disability?

• What if I’m bullied?

• What if I get something wrong and people find me out?

• What if people think I’m arrogant/thick/pretentious/rude/unfunny?

• What if I speak out and no one hears?

• What if I fail?

• What if I fail… again?

These are all, to different degrees, issues of security within a community. Then there’s the additional fears about sustenance: money, time, failure, resources, earnings and career that terrify us even on good days, and which set our brains to believe we’re about to starve.

We have been encouraged to grow thicker skin and to become bullet-proof. We’ve been urged to believe in ourselves and not worry about what people think. And we’ve been told to stop being drama-queens, because a bad review or not getting a book deal isn’t the same as the reality that some writers experience of literally facing execution or excommunication for sharing their words. But, our brains don’t know the difference. Your amygdala isn’t meant to sift through the nuances of a situation, it’s there to see danger and hit the alarm bell.

Our brains and bodies tell us that writing is a dangerous game and we are fighting against our evolution-honed inner-protection systems to do it.

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I want to help you to learn how to feel safe. Safe enough to sit at your desk. Safe enough to write 100 words, safe enough to try out that new idea, safe enough to persist through the obstacles. I want you to feel safe – safe enough to write.

The next newsletter will be about that. I will equip you with compassionate and easy techniques to let your brain know that writing is not going to kill you – even if it feels like the scariest thing in the world.

I’ve got you. You’ve got a spark. Let’s get kindling.

feel free to comment - tell me what things your brain says to you when you think about writing.

Coming soon

Look out for a weekly ‘tinderbox’ chat coming soon. An interactive place to share what’s sparking your creative fire and to gather fresh kindling.

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