Everyone, what is wrong with me?
I write. I write well. It is a huge part of what I do. I write, in fact, in an apparently distinctive style, if people's comments over the years are to be trusted
(teachers and professors have repeatedly told me they remembered my writing; people are often able to pick out things I have written from among groups of others even if my name is not on them). I tend, in fact, to be defined by my writing, or at least by my use of words. People have been telling me I was born to write since I was very small.
And yet, I am terrified of writing. Every time I am called upon to write something Real -- usually, of course, a piece of literary criticism -- I am terrified. Every time it is a huge and painful struggle. Every damn time I go through this fear that I have lost the ability, that words no longer respond to my needs, that I cannot will not have not written anything I mean to write. It used to be that I would have a type of hysterics at some point in the process of every paper I wrote. This is still often true, though no longer invariable. Writing, for me, is painful. In fact, I hate it.
And yet, what kind of career have I chosen? One that depends on a whole lot of self-motivated, sustained, difficult writing. One that will be made or broken by the strength of that writing and its subsequent publication. Right now, this seems to me to be a very poor choice.
In case you can't tell, I'm having a lot of trouble putting words down about Rosalynde and As You Like It, on which I am speaking tomorrow. It isn't a long assignment -- I only have to speak for fifteen minutes. I've been reading, drafting, and thinking about the issue for two weeks. I've consumed at least fifteen pieces of secondary source material on the subject. I know As You Like It very well already, and in fact I love it. I also love talking and thinking about Shakespeare. Why is this so hard?
I don't know. But it is. It is so hard that I am going to every conceivable length to both allay the anxiety and delay the writing -- and now here it is at the last minute and my proposed presentation is still in a woefully disorganized state. I'll fix it -- I'll get it together from the early hours of tomorrow morning until noon, because I have to. But I wish I weren't in this state.
It is some comfort to know that some published academics also feel this way, but it would be even more comfort if it didn't happen. Why is writing so damn painful? Why? Part of it is undoubtedly some species of perfectionism, and part of it is difficulty concentrating, and part of it is the expectation I have that I will write very well, which doesn't of course always have to be true, and is of course hampering to actually getting things done.
But knowing all that has never helped me get over this. Argh. I need to go to sleep, so I can get up and really put this thing in order. It will all be better then. I will survive. I always do.
You hesitate because you care so much, I think - you want things to be perfect. Think about it this way - if you were able to acheive perfection, nobody would ever be able to talk about the subject again, would they? It's good that people are imperfect.
Did that make any sense? Also, did I sound like a crazy self-help lady?