The Fifteenth

I often want to write when I can’t. And when I can, I don’t want to. That’s been my struggle lately. 

It is a common complaint within many artist circles that one often gets ideas when it’s an inconvenient time to do one’s art. So I'm in good company. Or in company, anyway.

Finding oneself in the shower is the most oft-used example of this disconnect because it’s hard to imagine a much worse time to be suddenly struck by inspiration. (Though ironically “inspiration” is probably the best thing to be struck by in the shower. Psycho would be a much different movie if Janet Leigh had been attacked with a good idea.)

So one of the things I’ve been working on for like the past 6 months has been to drag the version of me who is excited to write into when I have the time, while also trying to make “when I have time to write” more in line with that version of me who feels like doing it. I arrange chance encounters. I tell myself I need to be a better person and sometimes even believe I can. I wake up a little earlier to enact my plans. I do a lot of cajoling. There are farcical misunderstandings. I leave little notes to myself to get things moving. It’s like a romcom has been slowly playing out in my mind for the past half year and I’m starring in the leading roles!

What could go wrong?

And as I coaxed the me who isn’t in the mood to create into trying crazy new things like “writing when the house is empty” one of the many (oh so many) difficulties and distractions I faced was steeling myself to be alone. With only myself for company! And I didn’t like it. Or maybe, more correctly, I didn’t like the anticipation of it. But I had to face it. Because there needs to be at least a moment— maybe more than a moment, but at least one moment— that exists after I turn off or away from whatever was keeping me company and before I immerse myself into writing. A short space in the time between taking media in and making a bit of my own. But I began to dread it. I don’t know why, but the thought of it became… I want to say unpleasant but it’s deeper than that. It’s like an irrational fear of what might happen during that transition. As if the sudden loneliness might be too much for me to bear and I’ll collapse in a heap of despair.

I cling to the stream of noise that keeps me company: shows, podcasts, audiobooks, TikToks, Reels, or (god forbid) YouTube shorts. Even music can feel like I’m clutching at a voice outside of my head. The longer I watched or listened the deeper that dependency grew, and the harder it was to turn it off. And I don’t have an answer as to why I get into that mental place. Not yet. I don’t know if there is one, for me. Not one that is immediately evident, anyway. Instead, I developed something like a solution. A simple mantra:

Embrace the stillness. 

I like it. It’s a nice little phrase. Easy to remember. And it’s also a reminder that often the hardest part of getting stuff done is starting. Sometimes the worst part of working out is getting to the gym, the worst part of swimming is getting used to the coldness of the water, and the worst part of writing is being completely alone with myself.

So I’m practicing. Discovering how to make that transition less daunting. Building up a habit. Getting so used to beginning that I don’t think about the time in between leaving my comfort zone and getting started. Learning how to dive in without dwelling on it. And embracing the stillness.