Off the Record - June Edition

One of my favourite writers once said: “the faster I write, the better my output. If I’m going slow, I’m in trouble. It means I’m pushing the words instead of being pulled by them.”

This is a beautiful way of saying it.

I enjoy writing very much. Yet, most days feel like riding a rogue wave of imposter syndrome. As do many of you, I’m sure.

I worry that I’m not legit. That I’m not a real writer. That my growth is not exponential. That I’m such an arrogant twat for not writing in my native language.

The list goes on, and it ain’t easy to break out of the cycle. The second you start feeling a little low, these thoughts come rushing back. Like a shark preying on a sick seal, they come at you when you’re down.

When it happens, I try to think about music. I’ve been making music for two thirds of my life at this point, so it is more part of my normal than writing is. And while my own music has never been successful by any standard, I still make it.

Because I make it for myself. I’m awfully glad when it connects with someone, of course, but that’s not the reason I make it in the first place.

Should I stop making it because no one is listening? Should I stop making it because I have nothing new to bring to the conversation?

Every note has been played. Every word has been written. We all know this. So should we all stop what we’re doing, right this second?

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s not about the notes you play, or the words you write.

Perhaps it’s about the way you play them, the order you arrange them in. It’s about the meaning they have for you, the meaning you’re giving them. It’s about your vision of these twelve notes, your combination of these millions words.

I am nothing special. You are nothing special. But we still have the freedom to create and share. Whether we’re using notes or words or colours doesn’t matter. It is, first and foremost, a selfish pursuit.

And it’s cheaper than therapy.

It’s also a lot more fun, if you forget the metrics. Tell the little voice in your head to get lost. Sure, the 2 am me might very well be right when he whispers nasty words in my ear.

He says my writing isn’t worth a damn, that my songs aren’t worth the trouble of recording them. He tells me nobody is reading, nobody is listening. He tells me I’m a failure, that I will always be a failure.

So I tell him to shove it.

Because when I enter that little creative bubble, nothing can touch me. I’m cut away from the world. From the noise, the wars, the worries, the bills, the very real possibility of not making rent this month.

It all disappears. *poof*

All of a sudden, I’m just trying to make the best thing possible. To lay down take after take on my instrument, to type as fast as my fingers will allow. To capture the spark as soon as the ideas hit, like the mighty waves crashing on the coast in February.

And just like that, I find peace.

But then again, what do I know…

Central Hotel

“People who sacrifice beauty for efficiency get what they deserve.”

Tom Robbins, 1980.

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