Writing by the Pound

This post has nothing to do with mycology.

It’s another step towards getting out of my own way, a vote for who I want to become.

Stop taking things seriously. Breathe. Just start.

Then do it a thousand times.

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Once again, I’m starting to write about my relationship with writing, rather than what I think I should be writing about.

The endless idea fragments bouncing around my head gets bogged down by my over-thinking and seeming inability to wrestle with an idea long enough to publish a piece.

I’ve been here before. Many times. I get stuck at the start, not writing about lessons learned as a mushroom cultivator and entrepreneur, but rather mashing my keyboard, willing in vain as my hands write some self-referential pity party.

I don’t think I’m actually helping anyone with this. I don’t have a plan or structure. I don’t know who I’, writing for or who would want to read this post. I’m mostly just fighting my own mind at this point.

Yet, as I let my fingers clickty-clack as they will, my mind quiets. Like taking my first few deep breaths of the day, forcing my mind to finish entire thoughts, one word at a time, slows the hamster wheel of my mind down. After a few minutes of babble-writing, I don’t feel so paralyzed or anxious.

I’m reminded of a grade 9 poetry project I had to do over Thanksgiving weekend. The assignment was to write a handful of poems, each one in a different form: a haiku, a limerick, a sonnet, free verse, acrostic, and maybe a few more.

I sat in my chair, stuck for days. Nothing seemed to ease this psychological block, and no poems were written. My family was downstairs eating thanksgiving dinner, and I forced myself to stay in my room to write these poems as they were due the next morning. The letters that managed to eek their way onto the page were quickly erased or torn out with the page, crumpled and pitched with malice towards the nearest wall. None of it good enough to even use as a starting point.

I kept getting angrier at myself and I remember snapping a few pencils in frustration.

Then something clicked, like a bad back suddenly popping back into place that floods the body with joy and warmth. I cranked out all of the poems in a matter of minutes. Words flowed onto the page like an unclogged sewer drain.

I wrote all my poems about how much I hated having to write these poems, about poetry as an art form, about being forced to be creative in such a way. It was honest, and it felt amazing to both write and read back to myself.

Looking back, I was clearly afraid of doing it wrong. Decent in science and math were there was clear write and wrong answers, I loathed the idea of being judged and graded for something I made, something that was supposed to be a reflection of some inner part of my self.

From what I understood about poetry at the time, I knew that “right” meant real. This felt real, and vulnerable, so this had to be right. I went down to enjoy the feast and turned in my work the next day.

I failed the assignment.

I had gotten low marks before, which crushed me. This was something else.

My teacher called me into the principals office, turned the graded page over and a huge, red ZERO adorned the upper right corner. She then proceeded to rip the sheet of paper in half. This was literally the worst-case scenario for me at the time. Not only that, I was made to redo it from scratch, and even got detention at lunch until I finished the assignment.

I numbly did what I was asked, putting as little of myself into those new poems as I could in silent protest. I lost a couple of lunch breaks.

In hindsight, as most things are, it wasn’t nearly as big of a deal as I felt it to be in the moment. And yet, writing about what is true for me remains a challenge.

But I’ve come a long way. I’m maybe 20 minutes into writing this blog post at this point and I think grade 9 Shane would be pretty impressed.

My mood has shifted 180 degrees from the start. I feel lighter. I laugh at how dramatic I was 600 words ago. I often appreciate being reminded not to take things so seriously.

It makes me wonder: what if I put on a 10-minute timer and word-vomit onto my keyboard, just to unclog the gutters of my mind. Don’t edit it. Don’t publish it.

…

Ha. I just looked that up. Apparently it’s well-known writing exercise to get over writer’s block.

Great.

Glad I’m on the right track.

Anyways, I didn’t write what I wanted to write tonight, but that’s fine. I’m going to publish this anyways. It’s probably good practice for me to let go of what I create.

Plus, now I have a plan for my next writing session.

Blogs by the pound, baby.

Just for the record, those poems fucking slapped.