My creative flow has tapered somewhat again. Barely has a free evening graced me since the middle of last week. I managed to get the final bulk of newsletter work wrapped in time, which I’m dead chuffed about, yet everything else on my creative to-do list has been placed momentarily on hold. It was never my intention. I had many writing plans lined up for the last seven days. Perhaps the problem is, I didn’t actually consider when exactly within my timetable I’d slot it all in. My calendar was jam packed for much of the week. I’d just assumed I’d squeeze in the storytelling during the quiet hours before work or during my evening cooldown period. None of which happened, as hindsight has shown. The motive was there during the runup. When the time arrived, however, the initiative dwindled. Those periods of quiet intended for productivity were instead populated with me gawping at my phone or staring at a ceiling, wondering if I really was an idol fool after all.

It’s also been the first week in months in which I haven’t produced some form of content for my personal website either, which I suspect may serve as the crux of my discomfort. I’d hoped to work on a short story for this week’s release. It was set to be a tale about a man who buys an AI-powered robot to serve as his only friend. The idea being the man will upload a series of emails and text messages made between him and an old friend who is no longer in his life. The robot would act as a partial copy of his former buddy, albeit without the context as to why the friendship collapsed in the first place. It is intended as a sort of a Black Mirror style cautionary tale surrounding loneliness, possessiveness and connection. I had it all planned out. The structure, the ending, the journey it’s troubled lead would embark upon.

I haven’t written so much as a word of it.

All of which is fine. Writing isn’t constant. There are going to be days when I just can’t bring myself to work on all the stuff my brain is itching to produce. It’s just been one of those weeks. I’ve had friends’ birthdays, gigs to attend, and cinema trips pencilled in with my nearest and dearest. Writing might be incredibly important to me, but there are other facets to my existence I also need to maintain. After several months of heavily investing in my various projects, a rebalancing is long overdue.

Having said all of that, why do I still feel so gosh-darn awful? If you, dear reader, could peek inside my mind right now, you’d be shocked at the inferno of shame burning at the core of my thinking. You’d be forgiven for assuming I’d just signed my entire future away. All I seem to be telling myself is how much I’m not a writer, that I’ve only got myself to blame for not being any good at it, and that my future plans of finishing my novel are about to be flushed down the toilet; all because I couldn’t make time to hash out a few words during a hectic schedule.

There is a guilt flowing through me. If I’m not being productive, I’m not getting any closer to improving my craft. If my short stories and novel do not progress, I fear I will forever remain in this weird, frustrated state I’ve been in for the last few weeks, where fiction writing feels like swimming through custard. My prose are clunky and my narrative execution is struggling at the moment, that much I know. I really have to find the time if I’m going to overcome these particular hurdles. But how can I overcome them when I’m not actually writing at every opportunity? Can I really allow myself to enjoy a concert while my work lays unfinished? Of course I should be able to. Everyone needs downtime, and to compromise that will just lead to burnout, resentment and poorer productivity. I know my thinking is flawed and counterproductive, but try telling my brain that in the heat of the moment. 

Goodness, how melodramatic of me. Of course I haven’t failed myself. I’ve taken entire months off before. Heck, I even took a whole year off of writing several years back. Taking a few days out to enjoy myself with friends and recharge isn’t the end of the world. I’ve still gotten other creative stuff done in that time. The very act of writing this entry is proof that I’m still doing something. It may be the ad-hoc ramblings of an angst-ridden worrywart, yet it’s still something tangible. I just need to catch myself when I’m having these thoughts. An off-week is never cause to pull the plug. How many times have I had days like this, where I’m convinced I’m worthless or unworthy because I didn’t add another 1,000 words to a pending project? The key is to recognise the doubt, then rebel against it.

Which is perhaps the core positive to take from all of this; I’m getting better at spotting the negative thought patterns. I can hear the inner chatterbox perking up each time I focus on other areas of my life. It’s the same chatterbox that has resulted in me giving up on projects in the past. I berate myself for not being consistently productive, then decide to just give up altogether. Perhaps it’s my brain trying to protect itself from the feelings of shame. If I just don’t do it, then I can’t get mad when I stop. How can I fail if I never try? That sort of thing.

Now that I can see it, however, it’s easier to combat. Having laid out my convictions in this very journal, I can begin to resist that reactive urge to stop. I can keep writing out of sheer stubbornness. Tomorrow, I can open my Google Docs and crack on with my story about the man and his AI buddy, knowing I revolted against my self-critical introspection. By acknowledging the negativity flowing through me, I can decide how to proceed; I can choose to break the pattern.

I must confess, however, there is something unnerving about ignoring the doubt and soldering forth. Choosing to proceed means I’m more likely to make actual, tangible progress. Usually, I’d have these musings without being all too aware of them. In response I’d react by phasing out my writing without giving it much concious thought. If I opt not to do that this time, then it means I’m progressing further than is usually the case. I’m not falling victim to the usual cycle; I’m sticking to the journey, and I’ll be the furthest I’ve ever been from the starting line.

Perhaps that fear is what kickstarted the cycle in the first place. Maybe I wasn’t simply shutting down to avoid feeling bad about having time away from a productivity streak. What if I got scared of success, so my subconscious formulated a reason to justify throwing in the towel? Now that I’m calling time on that “excuse” and proceeding, could I be growing more scared because I have no excuse but to carry on with my work?

Whatever the reason, it doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that I keep going. Feel the fear and march forth. The doubt and frustration will no doubt return, as will the urge to run and quit. But be that as it may, the show must go on.