I (Almost) Quit Writing This Weekend
I decided I didn’t want to write anymore. Then, I had something to say.
Warning: some of the subject matter in this story may be of a triggering or sensitive nature. Caution is advised before proceeding.
Dear Reader,
I decided to quit writing this weekend.
By Friday, I had patiently stalked my inbox to hear back on several ‘pitches’ I had sent. I had several drafts and rewrites that had been waiting days to be viewed. I have several follow-ups I had sent or needed to send. I had projects I was compiling that needed to be worked on, I had WIPs that deserved attention.
Yet, no matter how much I stared at my phone or logged on to my computer, none of that had changed by the end of the day. Yet, the day went on as if none of that mattered.
Yet another set of current events came to fruition from various catalysts. Another person died. Another person did something outrageous. Another injustice occurred. Another celebrity did something. Another politician talked down to us. People are mourned. People are loved. People are enraged.
Then, I came across an article. Aw, crap. Not again.
Yep. Another article, with the same basis that I had been pitching for weeks, written by someone else for another publication. Another concept I had put my labor and creativity into, just to have it ignored while someone else — likely with a bigger platform, with a larger following, with more connections — gets it. Did they steal it from me? It was probably assigned or something. Maybe an editor heard about my idea through some back channel…
Should I even read it? I should see if this writer did a good job on it, but…nah, forget it. I don’t know why I even bothered, like I have the range or the resume for it. They probably got paid more than I would’ve, too.
By Saturday comes the return of my internal bogeyman, the dread and wallowing that he brings with him. Here’s another weekend of my emails, my ideas, my hopes fossilizing behind a fading inbox of PR pitches and newsletters.
So I decided that’s it. I’m going to quit.
It’s not like I’m going to be missed. It’s not like I’m competing for a Pulitzer right now anyway. It’s not like I have immaculate Medium stats or award-winning interviews.
I decided I had put up with enough of the prejudices and -isms. The competition to be noticed by someone overwhelmed and/or underpaid monitoring an email account, the constant battle that’s like trying to be heard through a brick wall.
Why bother?
There’s more qualified, better voices out there. I’m sure some of them will break through. This industry will go on just fine without me. I have so many other things I could be doing.
Why bother?
By Sunday, I’ve prepared to archive all my drafts, delete pending emails. Change my biography. Start looking for new gigs, different opportunities.
I can finally move on. Find some sense of peace. Use my newfound time for something other than typing into the void.
Yet, as I continued to stare at my phone or log on to my computer, things had went on as if everything was the same. Current events continued to come to fruition from their catalysts: People are still mourning. People are still loving. People are still enraged.
I could barely hear myself as the bogeyman that resides with impunity drowns me out. How can I find peace knowing what I write doesn’t matter? Does anything I do make a difference? How can other people put up with this for so long? Maybe I could never cut it. That’s why my emails are ignored, why I haven’t broke through.
So why bother in any career? Doing anything? As long as I’m me, I won’t be good at anything…unless I form a new identity, or destroy enough of my past, if I drink enough, or hide enough, or…
I put down my phone. Turned off the computer. Left the messages unanswered. After sitting with myself, I got up and went to the mirror. I looked at me — I looked to me — because this whole time, I had dealt with how everyone else treated me. Listened to what everyone else chose to say.
I say ‘enough’.
Yeah, maybe I shouldn’t bother. Maybe I haven’t cut it sometimes. Maybe I’ve wasted time on never-ending drafts or counter-productive revisions. I could quit, right now, and nothing would be different.
Or, I can keep bothering. Keep typing into the void. Keep talking into the brick wall. Leave those fossils below, to be discovered and remembered — or not. Say what might not be needed, or even heard by anyone else, but what I have to say. Not because I want to — not even because I even asked to — but because someone has to.
Sure, it might come across as delusional, bullsh*t, even cliche, but that’s how we survived. The means justify the ends, the war isn’t over when the battle’s over. Insert some Annalise Keating-esque quote or DC Comics character moment here.
The fact is, I can quit writing — but I can never stop writing. Writers never stop writing: in their minds, in their words, in their action. Writing is an occupation, yes (albeit an underpaid, unappreciated, ungrateful one) — but it’s also an existence. What separates us is not the uniqueness of our collection or the size of the audience or what others determine as quality — but what we manage to leave for someone to read, to hear, to witness.
What we’ve managed to get beyond the wall — because taking down the bricks that define it, is the easy part.
So, dear reader, this Monday I have begun writing again. When I log on to my computer, and open my phone, another person will have died, someone will do something outrageous, we’ll learn of another injustice. People will mourn, they will love, they will be angry.
Hopefully, if we make it through the week, I’ll write all about it and you’ll be there to read it.
