Why I write

Honestly, I don't know what else to do.

Carrie Bradshaw. Not me.

This week I’ve been thinking a lot about writing.

Perhaps it’s because it feels—for the first time in a long time—that I have constant stream of commissions and client work to focus on. This, I know, is a privilege in and of itself and one that’s certainly not lost on me. In fact, friends who know me well will attest to the fact that until very recently, I was very much questioning where my next ‘chunk’ of work might come from. Having been buried deep in the ‘baby’ phase for what feels like years—I had been desperately clutching for commissions that took me outside of my four walls and into real life for months. But as any parent will know, it’s hard to muster the energy and motivation to hustle when your eyelids feel like they’re about to permanently adhere themselves to your cheeks.

Sure, there was always the option of working on my own writing. But rightly or wrongly, I still devalue my own work to such an extent that I can never prioritise it unless I also have a stack of paid work sitting in my inbox. It’s completely irrational. And I also know in my bones that if I ever want to ensure my own creative pursuits become more than just a big, sullen, silent hobby, I will need to actually give them the same amount of love and attention I give to my paying clients. But I digress—that’s a story for another day.

What I’ve been thinking about more specifically is why I write at all. When strangers ask me what I do and I respond that: oh, I’m a writer. Most often, I’m met with intense curiosity. And I must admit, there is also often a glimmer of envy—given that the cultural view of a freelance writer or author is still seen as far more glamorous than it actually is (thank you Carrie Bradshaw). But still, despite that fact that I’m more likely to be found sitting at my kitchen table in grubby activewear eating a tuna salad than wearing a pair of Manolos and a pink tutu—I write, everyday, because I honestly don’t know what to do with myself if I don’t.

There is an undercurrent that pulses through my veins every single day that tells me to sit at my laptop, open a blank document and just start typing. But this week I must admit, that I’ve also found writing tough. While ‘work’ has been super busy and there are many pieces still to pitch, write and submit—I’ve still felt a deep sense of melancholy that’s been difficult to articulate.

And it seems I’m not the only one.

This morning I read the most wonderful piece from writer,

Clover Stroud

who managed to articulate exactly how I’ve been feeling in the most eloquent way—explaining how she feels as if this week, she’d been sucked “into a great well of sadness.”

“…I’ve just felt so sad. The feeling was a forceful physical sensation, spilling out of me, tears rising inside me while I was making packed lunches or walking to work. I couldn’t keep the tears down. You know that feeling when tears are just THERE? They were like clothes exploding out of a suitcase which wouldn’t zip up.

As I read each word, I wanted to yell: YES! This is me!

It was such a comfort—not only to feel like my own bouts of sadness, melancholy and rage (which she also paints so well with her words) are experienced by others—but that it’s okay to feel this way sometimes and that even though it can feel like it’s impacting a sense of our identity, these feelings will pass. Eventually.

While Clover goes on to write that she had to literally force herself out of the house in order to pull herself out of her funk—the exercise also helped her to recognise that she wasn’t alone in her experience.

“…[it] reminded me that my pain, which had felt so singular, isn’t really so special. I think that’s a helpful feeling - to know that the rage or sadness or frustration, envy, hopelessness, whatever it is, is just another human feeling, shared by millions and millions of other human beings.

And on some level, I think this is why I write. By putting my feelings down on paper, it makes me more cognisant of the fact that whatever I’m experiencing is also being experienced by many others. So I write about my own experience (perhaps selfishly) to help bring form to my feelings—but also to hold space for others who might be clawing their way through their days, too.

What’s important is that we don’t allow our feelings to overtake our sense of self entirely. This week I was guilty of becoming my sadness—and I forgot that I could use my writing to help me overcome it.

As Clover says:

Feel it, but don’t become it.

Good advice, don’t you think?

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On the brink

Let's all leave Lily Allen alone

Mean girls, it's time to grow up.