ink, doubt, and the search for a voice

Yes, yes, yes. This is still about me not being able to write. But I am committed to getting over this writer’s block by going through it—so, as I’ve asked you several times now, please bear with me. I never plan my essays, nor structure them. They always seem to naturally flow into a rhythm and sequence that makes sense, and this piece is no different. Except this time, I haven’t a clue of what I’m talking about.

In my last essay, I explored one reason why I haven’t been able to express my thoughts. This time I want to explore a different one. Myself.

The more I lose myself in the fictional worlds of great authors, the more I familiarize myself with the most diverse schools of thought, the more I open my ears to different sounds, and my eyes to different colors—the more I feel as though I have much to say, and, simultaneously, nothing at all.

In a world where nearly everything has been said and done, what do I have to add?

For a while (and this is a curse that comes with idolizing outstanding people, who have done outstanding things) I believed that to do what I want to do, I needed to be the best. Not the best in the world per se, not even the best in my field—just the best at what I had chosen to do, which was write. But the more I flicked through the pages of Ondjaki, Oscar Wilde, John Steinbeck, and many great others, being the best began feeling like a daunting challenge—or better yet, a delusional feat.

These authors changed their genres, spoke to generations, wrote books that will withstand the test of time—have added something to a broader conversation. The more I spiraled into this rabbit hole, the more I realized that my dream of being the best was insurmountable. How could I be the best in a room filled with such great men and women?

That thought stumped me for a while, I must admit. But it did not stop me. I figured—as with every task I am faced with that is overwhelming—I would take baby steps.

Step one: find my voice

In what manner do I want to present myself, my prose? How could I make sure (that even without writing my name at the bottom of the paper) people would know it was my work just by the way I narrate my prose? Did I want to write as densely as Nietzsche or do I want my prose to flow as beautifully as Nabokov’s?

Step two: figure out what I want to say

To add to my voice, I need a message.

Do I need one singular theme or can my writing, much like myself, contain multitudes?

This challenge arose from my desire to write a book. I have written a book before, in my teenage years, but it seems as though the anxieties and burdens that come with adulthood have hindered my confidence as a writer. I do realize that what I wrote at sixteen was (pardon my French) a hot pile of shit, incomparable to how I write now. But the difference between sixteen-year-old me and twenty-five-year-old me is that my teenage self, when she had an idea, would not hesitate to put it on paper—which is why I look back at some of my work and cringe.

Now? Things feel either too ridiculous, not serious enough, or not meaningful enough.

Step three: find my audience

 Who do I want to write for? Who do I want to touch and connect with?

This I have not figured out yet. I have not decided if I want to be niche—a Sylvia Plath of sorts—or if I want to universally reach all people from different walks of life—a Paulo Coelho of sorts.

I took a break to see if I could crawl my way through this step and I believe I’ve made some progress. As I sat and analyzed my character, my personality, my being, I had to promptly remind myself that the nature of who I am is inherently niche. I could never be a Paulo Coelho—not dimmish him or his work—because I am not easily digestible. I am confusing, complex, contradictory, chaotic. I am a weird person. And I cannot foresee myself changing who I am to have a more universal appeal—so niche it is.

Not to mention, the pressure that comes with being universal. I don’t think I would ever write a word—much less a cohesive collection of words—if I were trying to appeal to every human soul on this Earth. If I can pass the third step successfully—because I still haven’t chosen an audience—then maybe, just maybe, I will be one step closer at writing that book I so long for.

Now, you might be wondering: Why can’t you get through the third step already?

That’s a great question!

If I wish to get through this step, I must do what sixteen-year-old me did so well: write.

I have to write. Write about anything and everything. Write about what feels right and what feels wrong. I simply have to write. Not only will I then be able to see what my voice keeps repeating over and over but it will help me achieve the (insurmountable) goal of being the best.

And that’s what I kept forgetting—and did forget when I began writing this—becoming the best does not happen overnight. None of the authors I listed before were born the best, they became it.

They worked on their craft and honed in on what their voice was saying—and that’s what I need to do.

Write, write, write.

And somewhere in between the lines, I will find my message.

And then, finally, I will be able to share it with the world.