Alienation of joy

To all the creatives who feel like quitting

a blurry picture from Pinterest, anon.

for the past six months, I haven’t been able to write the way I used to write.

I’ve tried reasoning, bargaining, crying, repeating my creative process over and over. I tried taking a break. tried the artist’s way. I joined a writer’s club in my city.

yet the page remained blank.

I didn’t know what changed. all I knew was, I was slowly starting to hate writing. the very thing that gave me my voice back. that terrified me.

Creative work means nothing if you don’t enjoy the process.

this statement kept echoing in my head, like an alarm that wouldn’t snooze. my frustration was starting to root itself in my craft and I was worried how I was going to nip this in the bud.

I was scared of what else I’d lose. what happens when we suddenly don’t get to enjoy our creative process anymore?

I remember the time I used to write everything down, at ungodly hours and hit post. one essay after the other, then a poem, and back to the essay. but now I feel insurmountable bounds of inertia holding me back. I don’t know what has changed and I didn’t like not knowing.

at this point of my life, I am at a crossroads. Trying to figure out my career. Trying to figure out what I truly want, that which doesn’t stem from the spirit of competitiveness.

Perhaps the amount of “productive” creative work I could be doing has me avoiding it like the plague. It feels like so much pending work mentally, that I am too drained to pick up the pen and keep writing.

Perhaps it’s my state of mind. I have been uprooting memories, watering the wrong plants, and I can feel my well of creativity cough its last dry breath.

or

Perhaps it’s my inability to let go of the concept of loss itself. I have always written about my greatest loss, but how do I write about the pile of it that my mind refuses to process?

deep down, I know I need to do things differently.

yet something is blocking me, keeping me stuck in the in-betweens. I am still guessing the answers to these questions, but all I can chalk it up to is a handful of maybes.

Maybe, it’s because I can’t imagine my life without people who have always been there.

Maybe, it’s because I have too much pressure to excel.

Maybe, its my perfectionism

Maybe, its someone’s evil eye

Maybe, it’s the need to write-maxx, hobby-maxx, whatever-maxx. I cannot ignore the need to monetise my art. And earn well.

Love does that to you. you want to earn so much that you can give them everything you want. everything they want and could want.

image from Pinterest, anon.

as the days go by, I can feel the words boiling in my stomach, rising through my food pipe, and threatening to spill out of my mouth. I know I have to process it all, by starting to let it all out. Let it all go. Let it all be felt.

my screen flashes horrifying news one after the other, strengthening my belief in the pointlessness of life. I don’t know how to approach my writing anymore. My art. My creations. My feelings. My voice. My self.

Joy has left the room and now I don’t have the capability to produce the “best results”.

Loss seems to be something of a marxist. Its alienation strips you away from your capacity to create something with your bare hands.

I can type, but not write.

I can only hear, but not listen

I can only see, not watch.

I can only touch, but not feel.

It feels violating. To not be able to express myself for so long.

everything I feel the necessity to create becomes just that. a form of obligation. not inspiration. not joy. not self-expression. unemployment has me grasping the last straws with desperation. I dreamt of this day, yet only a week into it I feel my sense of control slipping.

so I step out, with the sun-rays hitting my body. I remember that the world didn’t collapse without my work. it’s okay to breathe for a second, catch my breath and look around. do nothing. Rest.

Fear claws me back into my room. It whispers maliciously in my ear - if your creation doesn’t matter, how does your profile stand apart? What is the point of it? Why aren’t you doing anything lucrative instead? Is this why you left science? What’s the necessity? What’s the utility?

Your subscribers are leaving you.

Is your time worth the gamble?

but time will pass anyway.

something in me cracked as I realised, and thought ‘If you don’t bring your vision to life, someone else will. Why send it where it doesn’t belong?’

So here’s something I made. It ended up creating a path as I continued drawing.

obligation does kill the spark in you. when you feel the “need” to create, instead of a “call” it’s time to step out. Rethink the process.

there is a thin line between considering your art as play, and having the audacity to dream higher numbers.

beginnerhood will find you, over and over. sometimes, it will feel like you are feeding a hungry beast, that will never stop asking for more.

I’m still not able to write the way I used to. my substack numbers are decreasing. That’s not the point though. One day, my art will garner support. For today, writing this is enough. All I had to do was get started.

so take this as a sign if you will. Let me hold your hand as I say this.

take the rest you need. and create because you can, not because you should.

Thank you for making it to the end <3 I think you are very cool. I’m forever grateful that you are choosing to be here and read my words <3

find me as @nunyums everywhere : instagram | youtube | goodreads| pinterest

and as always, wishing you a kinder sea,

- A