I couldn't write anything

But that doesn't make me a bad person

my blank document

My ‘oughts’ and comparing parts were very active as I approached writing this morning.

The oughts wanted to keep me happy, and wanted to keep my ‘audience’ happy. “It’s good to send something out at the same time each week”, that voice said. That voice didn’t care about whether I had anything to say, how I was feeling about writing, or about how I was feeling at all. It knew that I was excited to be writing when I started this Substack a few weeks ago, and therefore I should keep writing: it will be good for me.

The comparing parts of me were aware of how many good writers have moved to Substack recently, and how seriously they take it in terms of what they produce, how many people are reading, and whether this writing can become part of what supports them financially.

I had an instinct that what I was thinking about writing couldn’t match up in quality or attractiveness to what any of these other people were writing. In fact, I had a feeling that it wouldn’t match up in quality or attractiveness compared to the first few pieces that I had written. “If you throw something in about gender, you’ll get more clicks”, part of me said, “or you could get more clicks by including the photos of the jumpers you wrote about last week, and mentioning them in the headline.”

I had a deeper instinct that what I wanted to write wasn’t ready to be written yet: it was still brewing. And if I didn’t write anything? That definitely wouldn't compare favourably. 

I turned on my PC and then I distracted myself for a long time. I opened up a blank document and then moved to a different tab and dealt with some other work.

There was tension in my neck and shoulders. Every time I moved closer to writing I could feel that tension increasing, and I could feel my face scrunching up with concentration. It was as if I was carrying an actual weight made up of all of those expectations that I had of myself. “This,” I thought, “is probably a sign I should not be writing right now.”

I gave myself permission to back away from the keyboard, and I felt that tension beginning to ease. Naming the parts of me that were active (like I have done above) also helped to ease some of that tension.

I suspect that kind of embodied response is always an invitation to these two things: to pause, and to notice what’s happening in my inner world.

This morning that pausing and noticing gave me the opportunity to validate those feelings. They have a point, after all, after just three pieces of writing I’m not going to be as successful as those other writers. That is true. And it also gives me the opportunity to reassure them: my value as a person is not based upon how good my writing is, or how successful I can be. 

I’m fortunate enough to have ended up in a Buddhist tradition that directly addresses this kind of insecurity. In Pure Land Buddhism the sacred promise of Amida Buddha is that we are all worthy of being taken to the Pure Land, just as we are. 

Whatever you think of the reality of Amida and the Pure Land, to me, this philosophy points to the deep truth that we are all worthy of love just as we are. I don’t need a million subscribers, or a mantelpiece full of awards (although I can enjoy those things if they arise - do send me plenty of awards please!) 

Despite experiences that have confirmed this truth many times in my life, there are still plenty of parts of me that find it hard to believe. Particularly those parts of me still carrying wounds or insecurities. So I have to keep reminding myself of the basic truth of worthiness over and over again.

As this haiku by Inagaki says:

Just as you are
Really
Just as you are