A Shining Achievement
Hey,
It’s been a while!
I took a month off to write a book, which I suppose isn’t much of a vacation. From November 1-30th, I churned out 50,000 words. Intense.
In the process, I found immense pride, grit, and fixation. Some days I wrote a page, others I managed 20. It consumed my life the whole time.
I only realized how unreasonable the goal had been when I printed out my final 200 pages. The stack is so hefty that it’s currently doubling as my laptop stand.
Over the last two weeks, I’ve been on a comedown. For 30 days straight, my life force had been hitting the word count. With the goal complete, I’ve crumbled into a shell of fatigue and self-consciousness. I expended every ounce of my creative energy into
Looking back, I was a woman possessed.
It started the same way most horror stories do: an innocent soul in pursuit of a passion. In this case, I was seeing through my childhood dream of becoming a novelist.
At first, the idea was picturesque. I gave myself time away from this blog to dive into something new. I was energized by the fantasy of working on a book. I thought it sounded serene. I imagined cozy mornings at coffee shops, staring idly past my laptop in between heavy bursts of creative output.
The reality was much grimier: four-day-old sweatpants and greasy hair, muttering swear words under my breath when I had no words left to write, and snapping at my partner for daring to walk past my permanent spot on the couch.
Slowly, the familiar grip of perfectionism took hold, and I allowed myself no lenience in hitting targets. When my daily word count slipped, I would lock the apartment door for the weekend and mentally flog myself unit I caught up. For hours on end, I typed like I was doing a retreat at the Overlook Hotel.
Whenever I pried myself away from the screen, I found ways to meld every conversation into inspiration or to get feedback. My head was on a loop of the same two questions: does this story work? and is it enough?
Outside, I put on a good face. I excelled (somehow) in my regular job and maintained time with friends. At home, however, I was a tornado. I spun around in circles leaving tiny piles of notes and coffee mugs in my wake. My husband cooked every meal and did every dish while I agonized over shitty dialogue.
In dreams, my characters changed their minds and altered the story at a whim. I would wake up unsure of what I had already written, and what was an apparition. I felt delusional.
When the possession became overwhelming, I called in experts. Every free moment was spent with podcast voices swirling in my head.
“You have to stress test your scenes,” they said.
“You aren’t starting in the right place,” they whispered.
The cacophony of voices ran through my head like they were participating in an obstacle course. They climbed my character arcs and dove into my plot holes as tried, desperately, to keep moving forward.
For a time, I’m convinced I was writing in tongues. While I kept vomiting up paragraphs, my partner and mom attempted various exorcisms. They encouraged me to take breaks often.
On the 29th, they both insisted I stop for my birthday. I opted to celebrate with nine straight hours at my keyboard.
A wave of calm washed over me the second the story was expelled. I finished the challenge 13 hours before the deadline at 50,003 words - ever the overachiever.
My memory of the entire experience is a blur. I only know it’s real because my demonic child is printed and patiently waiting on my desk. It knows endless work awaits: more drafts, editing, beta readers, querying, and more edits…. It beckons for me to come play. Forever and ever and ever.
While I’ve been reintegrating into normal life, I’ve struggled to write anything at all. For days I’ve been looking at a word doc, trying to remember why people like this blog. Hell, I’ve been trying to remember why I like this blog.
I remind myself that these essays are what gave me the confidence to try a novel in the first place. The consistent deadlines and effort have evolved my craft more than I thought possible, and I’m forever grateful to everyone who chooses to read. Yet, while I try to pull focus back to my usual writing routine, the pages of my draft keep drawing me back.
I’m caught between two obsessions.
Despite the achievement, I have this unshakeable guilt over leaving it untouched. Moreover, I worry about having left my paying VIP members and new blog subscribers without anything to read since October 30th. I conflate your gracious support with unyielding expectations.
Every few minutes, the familiar voices kick up as if caught in a mental windstorm. They swirl around muttering you’ll never finish, you aren’t a good writer, you’re lazy and it will never be enough. My response is an overwhelming urge to throw everything away and give up. If I can’t do it all perfectly, I should stop trying.
Not everybody can shine.
When I force myself to take a step back, it’s obvious that the true heart of perfectionism is fear.
Before the pandemic, I thought of writing a book as something I “might do, one day.” In the last three years, I’ve been published, landed a role as a full-time writer, got paid for my words, been invited to read at schools, have strangers reading this blog (hi!), and drafted a novel.
When I list everything out, it relaxes the shrieking demon inside. At least for a minute.
Normally around my birthday, I publish a self-reflective piece. Two years ago it was mostly about being super depressed (cool cool cool). Last year it was about the difference steady habits had made in my life. This year I was too absorbed in different goals to bother.
I unknowingly created a play about obsession in three parts
Hitting my goals has come with gratitude and an unfaltering belief that I can, in fact, do whatever I put my mind to. It’s also ignited a growing urge to do more. I become crippled by the fear of wanting to do it all and knowing it’s impossible to maintain. I’m following in the footsteps of all the great workaholics before me: Hamilton, Dr. Frankenstein, Scrooge… the list is, admittedly, star-studded.
The difference between a high-achiever and a workaholic is slight but important. Generally, it comes down to the attitudes they each have about work. Someone who is a high performer has goals tied to their company or team goals. They might work late frequently, but they are building to a specific deadline out of necessity. A workaholic seeks to be busy because they feel insecure doing nothing.
One study found that, when left alone, people would choose to administer light electric shocks to themselves than sit in silence. Or, in my case, decide to write a whole novel.
Instead of sitting idle, I’ve opted to play with my demons. I unknowingly summoned an internal monster that wanted (and wants) nothing more than to work me to death. So, ahead of the New Year, I’m making a conscious effort to purify my mind. Here are a few exorcism chants I’ll be using to save my soul from another perfectionist possession:
My worth is not measured by your achievements
Part of what makes art beautiful is its flaws
Good enough is, actually, good enough.
Having fun isn’t a reward I have to earn
I don’t have to do it all.
If you have your own affirmations, let me know! I’ll see you all in 2023.
