Category Thirteen: The Random, Wayward Musings of an Unsigned Writer

Hunter S. Thompson was a hero of mine. Not for his over-glorified drug use or borderline psychotic antics. No, he was a hero to me because he said “fuck you!” to convention and what people thought he should be doing. He was never scared to write what he wanted, how he wanted. Had he listened to the editors at Sports Illustrated and reworked his Mint 400 piece—or scrapped it altogether—we would (unacceptably) be left without Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

However, he was also a very perceptive writer when it comes to the process. He often wrote about something he called “The Fear” which became nearly its own character in his work on many occasions. Masked as paranoia from substance abuse, “The Fear” seems to be much more than that. It is a crippling condition, for a writer especially. What happens to us when we can’t write? How many of us worry that, no matter how hard we work, we won’t “make it?” This effect is compounded especially by those who believe in us. Failure means we let them down as well.

Writing is hard but writing for writers can be agonizing. Going over sentences countless times to make sure the flow, tense, word choice and readability are all perfect is taxing. It’s a hefty emotional investment. Writing is not the same as making a grocery list. It’s empowering and vulnerable. Ninety percent of what comes out of our brains is scrapped and useless. We only keep a few gems in the piles and piles of rubble we churn out. But these few gems are what make it all worth it.

For me in particular, the most difficult hurdle to overcome in my own writing is getting started. I am the King of Negative Self Talk. What’s the point? It won’t be any good anyway. Shouldn’t I be doing something else? What’s for dinner? Fuck it. Sometimes getting started is painful. Once the pen starts moving—the keys start clicking—I’ll often consider my contemporaries, mentors and predecessors. And it causes me anxiety. Knowing how good work is that other people have done sometimes fills me with a sense of hopelessness before I even finish a single paragraph. Harold Bloom called this phenomenon “The Anxiety of Influence.” We either overcome the shadow of our forbears or become second-rate imitators. But no pressure, right?

I’m calling it “The Fear.” I like that designation. Though perhaps Kierkegaard’s title is more appropriate: Fear and Trembling. Sometimes the anxiety can physically manifest itself. What do you want to be when you grow up? A writer. But what do you want to do for a real job? I want to vomit. Perhaps this is why I’ve tried every path conceivable to prepare for a “real job” to support my guilt-ridden fantasy of writing professionally—full time. What will you do for benefits? What if you fail? What if you never sell a single piece? Sometimes the voice asking these questions is loudest from my own mouth.

I could be a psychologist. No, there’d be no time to write. Where’s the creativity? I could be a journalist. No, the format is too strict. Too many rules. I could be an English teacher. No. Professor? Maybe, but when would you write? Try your hand at grad school? Mmm, okay, that sounds like a good compromise. How about some research? Fuck, I hate that. So Journalism was a bust, how about English? I don’t care much for Rhetoric, besides, when will I write? Try Literature then. Wow, I like to read, but Jesus Christ! Ok, well that’s two programs down, what now? I figured you knew. Fuck if I know! Well that puts us back to Creative Writing. What, like a PhD? Likely can’t get in. MFA? …