I Hate Writing

[Originally published 12/25/22]

I often tell myself that I hate writing, mostly because I only write when I am extremely sad. Sometimes, it feels like I can’t write anything unless I tap into this sadness, which in turn makes me avoid writing altogether.

I often tell myself that I hate writing, partly because I don’t know who I’m writing for. My writing teachers have always told me to consider my audience, and generally I never consider my audience until after the thing has been published.

I often tell myself that I hate writing because I have trouble finding places on the internet that are conducive for sharing sincerity. I’m afraid to post on Twitter and Medium for fear that my work will be overshared and misconstrued.

Today is Christmas, and I am sad. Lonely mostly. This year I lost many things I loved: my dream job, a long-term relationship, my home in Seattle. I moved back in with my parents, and while they love me, they do not know me. I spend a lot of quality time with them, “building the bridge” I call it, continuous attempts to get to know each other better. “If you feel so misunderstood, then why don’t you just tell us who you are?” they say.

If only it were that simple — when asked who I am, my throat closes up and I begin to gag. Writing is easier than speaking sometimes.

“I can’t read what you write because it’s too sad,” my mother tells me, “but I can get through it if I pretend it was written by someone else.”

Translation: I can hardly stand to see my children sad, I would prefer to imagine that this wasn’t the case. (This isn’t helpful).

“I read the blog you posted last night,” an acquaintance tells me. “Are you okay?”

Translation: I am concerned for your well-being. (This isn’t helpful).

“I had no idea you were so sad,” a lover tells me, years ago, as they leaf through one of my journals. It is winter, and we are sitting outside on a heated slab of concrete above a boiler room.

Translation: I have a clearer picture of who you are.

Perhaps I hate writing because it clearly shows me how divorced my internal life is from my external life. Writing sometimes feels like the most painful mirror to hold up, as if its edges are broken and jagged and cutting into my hands. Why the fuck do I keep coming back here?

The inelegant answer is that I know that I am not the only person feeling lonely on Christmas. On a day when we ideally are celebrating all the things that we have, the things that we are missing (or have lost) tend to be more obvious. In an effort to combat this loneliness, I read books.

Some of my favorite books are the saddest ones, because to me reading a sad book feels like walking with a sad friend. The shared loneliness between author and reader is a form of sacred company that has carried me through life and will carry me through this holiday season.

I hate writing, but perhaps it’s the sharing of experience that brings me back. If more people knew that they weren’t alone in their pain, maybe that would ease their suffering a bit.

I often tell myself that I hate writing, mostly because I only write when I am extremely sad. However, the truth is that I write because it helps me walk with that sadness.

I often tell myself that I hate writing, partly because I don’t know who I’m writing for. However, the truth is that I am writing for anyone who is looking for a message in a bottle, including myself.

I often tell myself that I hate writing because I have trouble finding places on the internet that are conducive for sharing sincerity. However, the truth is that the world is not very conducive for sincerity, and that our ability to be sincere depends heavily on our courage.