Surfacing Ick

I have been suffering from a bit of writer's block lately. This "ailment" is, of course, a natural and inevitable occurence; everyone experiences creative hurdles at various points during life.

But knowing that to be true does not assuage the self-judgments and self-criticism I have been inwardly projecting regarding this matter in the least.

That might sound strange to some people--to be upset with myself for having writer's block.

After all, it is not like I develop self-directed anger when I come down with a cold. And aren't they sort of the same thing?

Although, in all likelihood, I have probably gotten mad at myself for having a cold at one point or another. Such an inane display of inappropriate emotion would be just the sort of thing to which I would subject myself. I mean why not become irrationally angry for a falling prey to a perfectly natural, though slightly inconvenient, life occurence? I mean anger is SO productive anyway, right?

That being said, now I wonder: how much time and energy have I wasted being upset at myself for experiencing small setbacks (of a mental, emotional, or physical nature) instead of channeling that energy into healing or solving the issue at hand?

Probably more time than I would care to know. Probably I could have watched those darn lengthy Lord of the Rings movies several times over and read War and Peace to boot.

With regards to this particular creative block though--like many people I know, I come down quite hard on myself when I do not follow through on the plans or promises I make. And I am (ironically?) especially harsh and critical when the person to whom I have pledged these plans or made these promises is myself.

What I cognitively know to be a more productive use of my energy is to not be angry at myself for being "blocked" but rather to look at that anger with the following sort of attitiude: "Hmm, anger. There you are. I wonder what on earth is causing you. Let's sit together for a bit."

Really, I already know that part of what is fueling the anger is simply my avoidance to try to figure out what is causing it. So I stew, stall, and sidetrack myself (often by becoming mad at myself). Why? Because I do not really want to perform the self-examination that I inherently know is required in these sorts of situations.


Frankly, and with regards to my current situation of being frustrated by writer's block, it is easier for me to say I feel guilty and like a bit of a failure because I have not been writing as much as I promised I would write. It is easier be mad at myself because of it than to actually examine it. Self-irritation is a great avoidance technique.

I know this to be true, by the way, because I have a long and complicated relationship with it. Yet, this idea of branding myself a "failure" is an interesting judgment because the expectations and parameters for my writing were set entirely by me. As in: I could change the rules of the game at any time and be a winner.

But of course I would never do any such thing because I am a neurotic young woman who would prefer to wallow in my despair that some unknown "other" has inflicted this grossly unfair predicament on me. I mean I certainly have nothing to do with the writer's block I am experiencing. Yes, it is a manifestation of my own mind and is evoking all sorts of ugly emotions, but it is separate from me. So I will just have to wait it out, feeling all jammed up along the way.

I hope you caught the sarcasm in the last few sentences. And if you are just confused as all get out, well join the club. I welcome new members at any time.


The thing is that I acually know what is going on. Just as we all know what is going on in our lives when we experience "bad" feelings or are being particulrly harsh on ourselves or on others. We all know. We might not choose to admit that we know, or even to consciously recognize that we know. But we do.

So the truth here is that there are aspects about my personality that are not altogether marvelous. Big shocker, I know. Sometimes something irks me a bit and I end feeling really unsettled. Like an undercurrent of "ick" is swimming below the surface of my physical body. Now is one of those times.

Usually, if and when I allow this ick to surface, I realize that the reason I have been feeling uneasy, and the reason why I had fought allowing the bugger to surface is because I would have to come face to face with some part of me that was not utterly delightful and charming.

Part of my problem is that I would like to think that descriptors such as "delightful" and "charming" are perpetually applicable to yours truly. Regrettably, they are not.

So what I believed to be true when I started experiencing this writer's block was that I was feeling badly about letting myself down for not writing as much as I said I would write. I was avoiding writing for reasons I did not wish to examine. Instead, I kept telling myself that it was an indulgent activity and would have to take the back burner to my more "important" daily tasks.

But let's be honest. That is not true.

For one thing, writing is incredibly important to me. Moreover, it is incredibly important FOR me. It is my art therapy, my emotional outlet, my way to process exactly what goes on in that crazy head of mine. And I know it is crazy because my good friend Erin verified that on her comment to my last entry.

And the truth is that I want to believe that I write for myself because I love it, and because it can often lead me on an unexpected cathartic journey through the dark passages of life. And, while that is certainly very true, that is hardly the whole story.

If it were the whole story explaining my need to write, then I would be Ann Franking it and hiding my personal journals in closets and under mattresses, not writing a blog for anyone in the world to read at any given time.

So what is also true, and this is part of the ick factor, is that I want other people to read what I write. And I want them to really like it.

And therefore, what I am really saying is that I want all these other people to really like--not just my writing--but me in general.

This admission ellicits a very specific feeling: Ew.

As you know, I talk a lot about being authentic and abandoning this visceral need for external validation that seems to plague so many people, and yet here I am. So the undercurrent of my ick this time around was that I was feeling a bit like a phony. Yes, I want to my writing to be honest and inspired, as that is the part that is healing for me and therefore important for me personally. However, and here is where "ick" arises, I also want to produce writing that is meaningful to others, praised for its insight, and deeply entertaining.

Well, meet my ego, kids. She just elbowed her way into the blogosphere.

I think I would like to call her "Marge." That is what my dear friends Dave and Kristyn call me sometime and it always makes me laugh. Sometimes Dave even lengthens the nickname to "Margarine" and that really gets me.

So when I sat down for several days in a row and felt disgusted by the drivel emerging from my hunting and pecking fingers (somehow I fell into a weird black hole during my schooling as I was never ever a participant of any sort of typing course), I chalked it up to writer's block. I decided I would need to sit it out for a few and wait to be inspired.

Conveniently, I could, of course in the meantime use the block to feel bad about myself and decide that the world was, once again, letting poor little me down.

Sounds productive, huh?

So then I thought: Why do I need to write X amount every week? Because I feel if I do not then I will forget how to write? Nope, not true. Because I am afraid of my emotions stock-piling within me until I blow a gasket without this much needed outlet? Maybe, but I do have other stress releasers and there is no telling what works at any given time; maybe writing is not the thing right now. So the fear of emotional plaque building up was not really true here either. Because I am afraid that if I do not produce riveting material on a regular basis that my legions of (imagined) blog fans will be let down and turn to other bloggers for entertainment and insight? That I may lose the external praise and validation that I love so much?

Margarine, what do you think? I say that sounds just about right.

So, in sum: the root of my anger and frustration is that I am upset at myself for not producing material that will boost my popularity and keep me liked. And I am the one who sits around talking about how important it is for people to be true to themselves and to live for themselves first and foremost. A bit hypocritical, no? Yup, A bit icky.

And I mean, who do I think I am anyway? Margarine is not even real butter.