How to Not Write
“Practice isn’t the thing you do once you’re good. It’s the thing you do that makes you good.”
By Marjie Alonso
Nearly four years ago I decided to learn to write.
I found courses online and chose what seemed interesting, or at least not annoying. I found one class based on the west coast, and though I adored the instructor, there was all this meditating. I cyber-traveled east, where the ethos was more my speed. I signed up for so many classes at once that I immediately became unable to differentiate between them. I accidentally signed up for a multi-week memoir class that turned out to be fantastic, and from which I found my first writing friends.
I wrote almost every day. I learned about things like Flash and Hermit Crab essays, personal essays, and started understanding abbreviations like CNF, no longer scrambling to Google mid-conversation. I made folders with written things in them.
Then I started submitting, gingerly, and somehow got a few pieces accepted into fancy places.
I took more courses: on how to get published, how to pitch, how to write better, cleaner, with conscious competence.
And I started writing less and less. And less. And still less.
I wrote what could best be described as “dreck” and asked my poor friends to look at it.
“That’s… nice,” they’d gently say, “A great start.”
No, it wasn’t, really.
More and more I dreaded writing, or needing to write, and that nagging “should be writing” feeling. I wasn’t writing, but neither was I doing anything else. I was miserable.
Toward the end of December, I sat myself down for a talking-to.
Nowhere on earth was there a band of needy people desperate for my next essay. What would happen if I just stopped trying to write?
The answer, it turned out, was nothing bad. I felt uncomfortable at first, then something between guilt and sorrow, with a touch of anxiety just for flavor. If I wasn’t writing, what was I doing with my life?
Watching Vera is what I did with my life, at least for the first month. Reading absolutely nothing important or educational. I was basically on a murder procedural diet. (How anyone is still alive in the UK is a mystery to me as so many of its citizens perish each week on TV.) I’d walk the dog, make some tea, and watch another episode of something I’d seen before.
I emptied my brain of all shoulds and musts.
I stopped trying (and failing) to read the endless emails containing prompts and course offerings and writing advice. I stopped reading lit mags and articles.
Six weeks in I felt I should really stop this nonsense, and I sat down to write. What came out was bland, bloodless, unnecessary. Vera season five it was. And I began to appreciate how decompressed I was starting to feel.
A couple of months into my UK homicide escape I began to feel the itch again. I wanted to write, to feel that fingers-to-keyboard connection of focus and purpose. But I had nothing urgent to say.
“Write about the KKatie burger place on the highway, and why that name is so hysterically wrong,” I said into my Notes app. “Write something about G not believing our bikes didn’t have water bottle holders in the 60s, and people’s obsession with carrying water with them, as if they’re going to dehydrate going from the house to the grocery store. Write something about how as we get older we call places by their original store name or location long after it’s changed.”
I watched The Pitt, Season 2.
In early April I felt a tingle that reached from my brain to my hands. I stopped deleting all the Substacks and course offerings.
I started writing things down. I began a short story. I started a flash essay about baking bread. I noticed a 100-word competition for a piece that needed to be “uplifting.”
“Yeah, right,” I thought. But I wrote something and liked it. I submitted it to the competition.
“Practice isn’t the thing you do once you’re good. It’s the thing you do that makes you good,” says Malcom Gladwell. Very true. But my years as a behaviorist have taught me that practicing incorrectly can condition negative emotional responses. We ingrain bad habits, zone out, and stall progress. We lose the joy of learning. Of creating.
While there are certainly times to stop procrastinating and get down to business, there are also times to walk away, recharge, and find the love of something again.
And perhaps we don’t need to get to the point of misery to acknowledge that.
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Marjie Alonso is a former animal behaviorist and trainer. She splits her time between Provincetown and Cambridge, Massachusetts, where she can usually be found walking and pleading with her beagle to drop that. She writes CNF and fiction. Her work has appeared in Brevity, The Huffington Post, and Cognoscenti.
#BritboxMurderShows #MalcomGladwell #procrastination #Vera