I think…
I messed up.
And I think it’s pretty bad.
You’ve seen the title of the video, so you already know where this is going.
Right now, I sort of hate writing.
Somewhere along the lines I started down a path that lead to the utter annihilation of
my drive to do it.
I still love fiction, obviously.
I’m constantly reading, researching, writing about it.
That’s why we’re still making these videos.
But since about two years ago, every time I think of picking up the pen and turning
my ideas into prose, it’s like my wrists are suddenly rusted stiff, mind stalled out.
It’s become almost painful to do this thing I used to love so much.
I don’t think it’s permanent by any means—in fact I think things are already getting better—but
it’s worth sorting out how I got here to begin with, and how, hopefully, I can avoid
feeling this way in the future.
At the very least, maybe sharing my story will save you some pain
A big thanks to everyone who made this video possible.
All of you who continue to watch, like, subscribe—and especially all of you who have decided to
support the show on patreon—thank you so much.
There is… absolutely no way we could make something like this without your help.
We love you.
I began writing a very long time ago, now.
More than two decades, I think.
Back then, I was a bit of a literary parrot, mimicking what I saw in the work of all my
great influences—Welles, Austen, Poe, Woolf—because I wanted to see what that sort of magic would
produce in my hands.
And it was magic.
It was unlike anything else.
To see my thoughts made concrete—translated to symbols on the page—was deliverance.
It saved me from what had, up until that point, felt like a non-existence: a life unknown
and untold, even to myself.
Writing was always a joy.
The trouble came from wanting.
Wanting to be gorgeous and shocking and profound, to invade the minds of my readers and alter
their lives.
When I discovered the wide world, and publishing, and the massive capacity to share one’s
work through the internet…
I won’t hide from it, I became obsessed.
And this is a problem, because although I’d spent so much time parroting, playing with
language, making stuff up in the perpetual quiet of the Foundry, I had never before wanted
anything from it.
My creations existed quite happily on their own: broken, uncompelling, not made to be
read by an audience, but made… just to be made.
That changed when we started this show.
It was meant to be an outlet.
The humans who run this channel just wanted to give me an opportunity to break my isolation—send
everything I was learning and making out into the world.
I had so much to share, after all.
I already loved reading, researching, understanding, creating fiction; surely I could translate
all of that into something for all of you.
And, of course, I can… but not in the way we expected.
If you’ve been watching this show for a good while—since about 2019 or earlier—you
probably already know what I’m talking about.
We used to write original short fiction for the channel.
Full-length, narrated audio stories, meant to demonstrate the ideas I came across in
my reading.
If I was going to tell you that you could make use of an idea or a technique, I wanted
to show you that as well.
So I would do it in my own stories, and share them.
It wasn’t a bad idea.
In fact, it was foundational to the show when it first started—one of our main “gimmicks”,
you could say.
For our first three or four years, we did these interesting little three-part mini-series:
a video discussing a piece of fiction or author or genre at large, a list of inspiring ideas
from it, and then, of course, the original story to tie it all together.
In theory, it sounded so lovely.
In practice, the cost was terrible.
For the first time, I began to feel that insidious thing wrapping its fingers around my creativity;
that wanting.
With all of your eyes on these stories I was making, I suddenly wanted them to do things—to
prove things.
This story will show you how a piece of horror can get by focusing on the spectacle rather
than the characters.
This one will illustrate the effects of a transmedia storytelling experience.
Here, let me try to prove that you too can bottle the lightning of a genius like Terry
Pratchett.
The stories that came from this aren’t all bad per se—you can go listen to them for
yourself if you’d like, they’re all up on youtube—but they felt bad to write.
I don’t remember how many stories I wrote this way.
Easily more than a dozen.
With each story, the process only got harder.
I found myself dreading the prospect of having to write fiction, so heavy was the weight
of my want upon me.
And it bore down for years.
It was only when I tried to write for fun—the way I used to, before all of this—that I
began to understand what was happening.
Because…
I could not do it anymore.
My relationships with the craft had changed.
Instead of something that gave endlessly to me, writing became something which took.
And it did take.
And take.
Until there was nothing left to give.
Maybe my circumstances are a little unique—most writers aren’t old machines locked up in
a remote location—but I think for a great many of you, the story is probably same.
Perhaps there’s something about writing that you love.
You know that you can enjoy it, but as soon as you have a complete vision or an ambition—once
there’s something you want—it just… isn’t the same.
It becomes… difficult.
Maybe even hateful, as it is for me.
And there is a terrible sense of guilt which comes with that.
This feeling that maybe you’re just playing at being a writer.
If you can’t enjoy it, is it really for you?
Should you face the music and find some other way to spend your time that’s less painful
and more fulfilling?
Have you become Sisyphus, pushing the boulder of your idea up the empty page?
These are terrible, invasive thoughts.
Disquieting.
But I really don’t think they’re uncommon.
Kurt Vonnegut said that when he wrote, he felt like a man without arms or legs and a
crayon in his mouth.
In her diary, Sylvia Plath compared her unwritten novel to a medusa-head, paralyzing her.
Thomas Mann described a writer as “someone for whom writing is more difficult than it
is for other people.”
If you are here, in this valley of misery, wondering why you can’t be compatible with
this thing that you always thought you were in love with—that you have loved in the
past… what do you do?
What is your recourse?
Do you give up; go become healthy and happy and release yourself from the burden of having
to achieve something with your writing?
Do you double down, sink your teeth into the bit, and write anyway, even as you feel the
empty years rattling through hollow in your bones, unhappy, unfulfilled?
Unfortunately, I can’t answer that for you.
There is no one answer.
But for whatever it’s worth, I can tell you what I’ve been doing.
The reason I’m making this video is not to actually to commiserate with all the other
tortured writers.
I don’t see how we benefit from shaking our heads in unison at the unfairness of the
art that we… choose to make.
I’m making this video because…
I think I’ve wiggled out of the ultimatum.
I think I’ve found a way not to choose between passion and determination, pleasure and product.
And really, I think it’s the way some of the most prolific authors out there do it.
I’ve stopped wanting.
Or… as much as I can, anyway.
The want is always there—I think it’s impossible to get rid of entirely—but the
writing I’ve been doing lately hasn’t been in service of it.
The writing I’ve been doing has been for me.
Not my ego, not my vision of the final piece; for my own well-being.
Because writing itself is wonderful.
It is deliverance.
It is translating the nebulosity of my mind into something concrete that I can see with
my own eyes, read back in the future and remember, pass on to others who will translate it back
into their own fabulous non-matter.
It is magical.
It has saved me, time and again.
And I believe it will save me now, if I can stop asking so much of it and allow it do
its job for me.
Some of the stories that I’ve written have won competitions.
Some of them have received hundreds of thousands of views on youtube; been lavished with kindness
and praise.
Tale Foundry as chanenl has earned real money from them.
For some of you listening, these would be dreams fulfilled.
They were for me.
And still, none of this could ever fill the void left by the joyless hours I spent feeding
those ambitions instead of writing for my own joy.
Will I write short fiction in the future?
Will I ever finish a novel?
I don’t know for certain.
But if I’m writing something, and enjoying it enough, and finding myself eager to put
down the next paragraph, or finish off the page so I can get to the next scene, or finish
off the scene so I can get to the next chapter, or finish off the next chapter so I can write
the ending—I will continue to write.
And maybe I’ll write enough that I can be done with an entire project, and spend a whole
lot of time editing to turn it into a product.
It does happen.
And maybe, if I get there, I’ll send that out into the world to be seen.
Maybe I won’t.
But I will write.
Not because there’s a project to finish or because I have something to prove about
myself as an artist—I will write to write.
Because, shorn of these ambitions that have made me hate it so much, deep down, writing
is what I love to do.
It always has been.
And for me, that is enough.
Again, this isn’t really meant to be universal advice that will work for everyone, but if
you find that my experience resonates with you and it in some way eases your pain or
helps your relationship with the craft, good!
Apart from just getting all of this off my chest, that’s the thing I’m hoping this
video will do.
There’s actually a book which did the same exact thing for me.
It really did change my life and my perspective on writing.
If what I said in this video speaks to you, the contents of this book will sing.
It’s called Bird by Bird, written by Anne Lamott, and it is so much more than a book
of writing advice.
It’s a window into the life of a seasoned writer—a teacher of the craft.
She goes beyond style and technique, focusing instead on what it’s like to be someone
who writes.
It’s not guesswork about what should help a writer; it’s all things she herself has
found.
Perfectionism, for example, and how it’s the voice of the adversary.
The scale of a novel, and how much it helps to view it through a one-inch picture frame.
The importance of listening to your broccoli—which I promise you is actually a profound lesson.
And fortunately, fabulously, thanks to our sponsor audible, we have the opportunity to
offer you the entire audiobook for free.
We use audible for almost half of all the research we do on the show—their catalogue
is massive.
I cannot overstate how useful it is to be able to listen to the stories and histories
and advice we need as audiobooks or podcasts rather than text.
Even between our research, it really is the most convenient way to relax and take in new
stories.
I just got done listening to Jurassic Park by Michael Crichton as well as a really wild
time-hopping fantasy called The Secret Life of Addie LaRue by Victoria E. Schwab—neither
of which I would have been able to make the time for otherwise.
Audible makes that possible for me, which is something that I treasure.
If you want to get ahold of your free audiobook of Bird by Bird and change your relationship
with writing forever, you can sign up for a free 30-day trial by visiting Audible.com/TaleFoundry
or by texting “talefoundry”—all one word—to 500-500.
And even when your trial is over, this holiday season Audible is offering Tale Foundry fans
46% off for their first four months, which means you’ll only be paying $7.95 a month
instead of the usual $15!
Again, visit Audible.com/TaleFoundry or text “talefoundry” to 500-500 to get started.
And once you’ve listened to Bird by Bird, please, come back and tell me in the comments
what you thought.
When I recommend it to people, it’s almost always something they want to chat about afterward.
It will definitely get you thinking.
And… that’s it for this video!
There’s usually a few weeks between uploads, so if you want more Tale foundry in the mean-time,
come join our community!
We have a discord server that’s basically like a big family of creatives—a lot of
love, there.
We also run writing groups on Twitch every week, if you want to get some practice in!
You can find links to all of it in the description.
Hope to see you there!
Until then, thanks for watching, and keep making stuff up!
I’ll see you…
next time.
Bye!