tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-977195274999180297.post4201252521379455500..comments2023-05-05T02:55:31.459-07:00Comments on The Girl Who Lived: What It's Like In HereKatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05813577761881391935noreply@blogger.comBlogger3125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-977195274999180297.post-65272875299046245922014-03-25T08:01:41.689-07:002014-03-25T08:01:41.689-07:00"I try, and my brain skips right off the surf..."I try, and my brain skips right off the surface like a stone on the surface of a pond.<br /><br />It won't let me go there."<br /><br /><br /><br />Yes, yes, yes, and so much yes. I have this experience so much these days, and it's maddening. It often happens when I sit down to write-- I get a line out, and then.... nothing. I'm not sure if it's self-censorship as much as that there are new words that need/want to be expressed and I haven't quite let them surface yet. Sometimes I think it's that it's not words at all-- something beyond or beneath words, and it's a sensation only. Ever since I've become more intent on "healing" and becoming happier, my ability to write has nearly evaporated. Weird, no? Sometimes I think that it's a process I need to go through; other times, that it's proof I'm heading in the wrong direction. I describe it as standing on a precipice, or straddling a chasm... like there's something right... there... that just eludes my grasp, and I'm not sure what I need to do to make it accessible, to grab it.<br /><br /><br />The semi-conclusion I've come to is that I need to just hang out there, and do and feel all the crazy uncomfortable sensations that come with it. Just, get more comfortable being uncomfortable, if you will. If I try to write when I'm there, it needs to be in an un-black-and-white sort of format possible. Like, I need to be writing in pencil on a napkin or something-- just getting stuff down and out in a way that creates as little perfectionism and self-censorship as possible-- mental diarrhea-like.<br /><br /><br />Or, I don't write when I'm there, because writing suggests that there's a finality to it, a right-or-wrongness to it, and I need to just BE there and not DO anything.<br /><br /><br />Anyway, thank you-- your blog still continues to make me think, and keep inching down this path.Elizabethnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-977195274999180297.post-70646721328099187792014-03-13T23:16:58.605-07:002014-03-13T23:16:58.605-07:00Thanks for this, Professor Errant. As much as it s...Thanks for this, Professor Errant. As much as it sucks to bond over our various miseries, it is enormously helpful to have things like this normalized. Human condition, indeed.<br /><br /><br />I think you're on to something with the perfectionism thing. Perfectionism and shame go hand in hand, I've found, and procrastination is never far behind when those two get going. I tend to feel-- and you might, as well-- that the creative work, and the writing in particular, is more than just an enjoyable endeavor than gives me pleasure and purpose. It cuts much closer to the bone than that. If I let it (and I let it, of course I let it), it becomes a measure of my worth as a human being-- a judgment upon myself and my descendants. <br /><br /><br />There's a whole lot of self-identity wrapped up in that stuff, is what I'm saying, and under the right (or wrong) circumstances, it can feel more oppressive than freeing to undertake, because I'm not just sitting down to make something creative that brings me joy, I'm sitting down to DEFINE MYSELF AS A PERSON IN BLACK AND WHITE FOREVER.<br /><br /><br />I don't know. Maybe it's just me. I know that I can let my creative endeavors join the team of the evil oppressors if I'm not careful, and then they become just as overwhelming as everything else. <br /><br /><br />It's as if there's a part of me that it determined to turn everything into drudgery; a death march to nowhere.<br /><br /><br />And it's silly, because it really does seem as though it's only a matter of habit (and I will check out that book; thanks for the rec!), and it really is true that I never regret pushing past whatever it is that holds me back and indulging in the art. <br /><br /><br />We've been given a great gift, and somehow, we've allowed ourselves to fear it. I'm reminded of that Marianne Williamson quote: "It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us."<br /><br /><br />In your case (and in mine as well, I admit), that light is considerable. Why do we allow ourselves to indulge in this pointless fear? And how do we kick its ass?<br /><br /><br />No, really. I'm asking. HOW? ;)<br /><br /><br />(Thanks for commenting. I hope you'll keep doing it. This is a conversation I'd love to continue!)KateTheGirlWhoLivednoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-977195274999180297.post-18619639751745169102014-03-11T10:01:26.147-07:002014-03-11T10:01:26.147-07:00Kate,
I've been mulling over your post, tryin...Kate,<br /><br />I've been mulling over your post, trying to think of how to reply because I very much wanted to. It's tricky for me: I don't have anything like the difficulties you've faced and are facing, but so much of this spoke to me, especially in the latter parts where you discuss your desire to withdraw and the ways in which that exacerbates the problems rather than alleviating them.<br /><br />In my case, the odd thing is that the part of me I am trying to access is, in fact, the creative part: my desire to write, to produce, is fierce, but whenever the opportunity comes, I shy away. I don't know if this is a combination of fear, laziness, perfectionism, or what have you, but I spend most of my time longing to create, and when the chance arises, I will do almost anything to avoid it. Television, video games, internet articles on pop culture: all offer a pale, dull shadow of enjoyment for almost no effort, and it's so much easier to plug into those than to do the work which would result in real, full joy later on. I get through the amusement and never feel any better, and despite the memory of contentment and satisfaction that has come from creative accomplishments in the past, they don't seem to move me forward to do more--I only lament that I'm not doing them now. It's a human condition in some ways, I suppose, but it's so much easier to see the paltry pleasures before us than the great joys that require effort. To paraphrase C.S. Lewis, we're children happy playing with mud pies in the slums only because we cannot conceive of the idea of a holiday at the sea. In this case, it seems so remote that I feel like I'll never get to the sea, so I might as well enjoy the mud.<br /><br />I'm not certain that makes sense, either, but it's taken me so long to get on here and respond (dithering as I was over how it could be most eloquently expressed) that I'm plowing ahead.<br /><br />The other comment that pinged with me is your mention of habit. Can I highly recommend a book? "The Power of Habit," by Charles Duhigg is not only a fascinating read, but really altered the way I look at my own actions. (Actually, I probably need to read it again to remind myself of some of the points that I've already let slip.) I've spent so much of my adult life trying to change my actions and falling back into poor choices in a seemingly endlessly repeating cycle that I despaired of ever feeling more than the most fleeting of happiness. The psychological insights and practical ideas in the book were really eye-opening.<br /><br />At any rate, thanks so much for posting: your blog is one of the most honest and affecting things I read. And thanks for wading through all this. Godspeed, sister.Professor Erranthttp://professorerrant.wordpress.com/noreply@blogger.com