”If I don’t write to empty my mind, I go mad. As to that regular, uninterrupted love of writing. I do not understand it. I feel it as a torture, which I must get rid of, but never as a pleasure. On the contrary, I think composition a great pain.”
– Byron
I hadn’t understood (or appreciated) Malcolm Gladwell’s charisma until I began listening to his podcast, Revisionist History.
Episode seven, Hallelujah, resonated more strongly than I would have hoped because, until I listened to it, I didn’t understand why I gave up on writing. I made excuses — said I had a perpetual case of writer’s block, that I was too busy and could not dedicate the time to write something out in one sitting, said that I wasn’t feeling the urge to write (when the only thing I wanted to do was transcribe the thoughts in my mind on to the journals collecting dust on my bookshelf).
Rather foolishly (or prudently depending on how you look at it), though, I ignored the most obvious reason for my giving up: I just didn’t enjoy my writing process anymore. Writing became tedious and torturous for me because I could never get it right. I’d pore over a blank page because the words were there — they were on the surface of my mind and, if I stared hard enough, they would appear on paper as if the invisible ink they were written in wore off — but they refused to flow in cohesive beauty. Committing them to paper wasn’t an option because that would mean I would have to be okay with what I wrote, when in reality I’m not even content with the tentative drafts that run through my mind. I didn’t think perfection and the satisfaction of having written something I was completely confident in was attainable, and I definitely did not think it was worth slaving over.
I was determined to persevere, though, because my love for the written word probably came second to my love for coffee on a cold autumn morning, and thus began the struggle. What was once a hobby turned into a chore, and I gradually loathed the idea of writing but refused to let it go. Gladwell’s episode gave me a new perspectives and a second wind.
In Hallelujah, Gladwell revisits the two kinds of artists who exist. Firstly, the prodigies – the Picassos and Melvilles of the world, who have specific ideas and can articulate. They plan. They are precise, meticulous, and can execute flawlessly. These are the qualities we attribute to geniuses in their respective fields. Secondly, the experimental innovators — the Cezannes and Twains of the world. They have no clear destination and don’t know what goal they’re striving to attain and have no idea when they’ll be finished because they don’t know what they’re trying to create. The end-goal is elusive and even when it’s been attained, a small voice always asks, “is it really complete?” because what if there’s something that can be fixed or changed? For these people (read: my people), even the finished result is just another draft because nothing is truly perfect (and even if it actually isn’t, our minds are programmed to believe that). For all we know, the first version is just a starting draft and we don’t know what our true finished product will look like; the art of the experimental innovator is intangible.
Tl;dr Somewhere along Gladwell’s lament over the misfortunes of experimental innovators, he sounded envious of the emotional attachment they have for their work. Somewhere along that same lament, I convinced myself that it was okay to be part of this group of artists. Trying to write, edit, rewrite, and re-edit is just a part of my natural process; iteration is as influential as precision and articulation. At least, that’s what I took away from the podcast and that helps me accept my approach to writing.
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