L.E. Henderson over at Passionate Reason has some insightful comments on writers and writing and the messed up messages that those demons in our heads hurl about like monkey feces.
On a particularly painful writing day, on the verge of giving up forever, I made a decision: I would let go of the idea of pleasing anyone; I would write whatever I wanted, however I wanted to write it; I would write cliches with reckless abandon if the mood struck; I would write absurd things if I wanted; I would write for myself.
After this, my writing mood crashes stopped. I no longer had to convince myself to write. Because I was fully engaged in what I was doing – and doing it a lot – my writing was better.
As a balm for writer’s block (which for me is closely tied to reader expectation), my counselor recently suggested that I write something exclusively for myself. Though I keep a sporadic journal, I found this assignment absurdly difficult; without the possibility of a reader, whom I both love and hate in equal measure, I lost my mojo to continue. Damn you, imaginary reader, why can’t you be more reasonable?