I’m having the surreal experience of midwifing my friend through his writing blocks when I have more of my own than he does. My writing blocks come down to, really, my incredible thin-skinned-ness. I pour my heart and brain into something, anything, and even my sloppiest work, if I believe it holds any value, feels like putting one of my children out there in the world to be nitpicked or ignored, and it is painful. I don’t mean painful as in awkward, or as in embarrassing, I mean painful as in anxiety so paralyzing that it hurts my physical body to hold it.
If, imagine, I could learn to care less about how my work, especially writing, is received, then I would be incredibly freed up to focus my energy on creating things I want to create. This incredible impulse to care, though, is just one of a dozen ways I am a walking contradiction. Every gift I potentially contain seems to be foiled by an equal but diametrically opposed foible in me. I remember learning about P2MR Brain types, and realizing that while I somewhat appreciate not sharing their particular weaknesses, I am in awe of their strength of being able to be impervious to feedback. The ability to not care sounds kind of amazing to me.
The extent of my self-defeating behaviors is humbling. I trip myself up hourly, at least. Even now, I am staying up too late when I know it will make the morning harder. Contradictions, every minute.
A Poet Is Somebody 