This has unfortunately been the cycle of my previous efforts at writing projects: Lots of big ideas, with little in the way of execution. I’ll make a couple of posts in the beginning, start writing new essays, get caught in the weeds, start new ideas, stop publishing, and eventually forget about the whole thing.
My intentions are not to get to those final steps again. But I think that means taking a clear look at my own shortcomings.
Sloth: I’m a terribly undisciplined writer. Maybe it’s because I barely attended college; I didn’t get into the habit of churning out essays on a regular basis, or learn whatever universities consider the “craft” of writing. (If you ask certain writers, this is actually an advantage I have, because I don’t have to relearn how to write. But I also don’t know how to power through.) Maybe it’s because of my mental health; I have depression, which makes everything just a little more difficult, including concentration.
Maybe I’m just disposed towards laziness, and prefer to use my free time to relax rather than work, which means any such project is hopeless. But I don’t think it’s the latter. I do spend a lot of time writing, nearly every day; my issue is writing with discipline, coming up with a finished product, following deadlines. It’s why I flirt with the idea of doing a daily post for a while; something to force me to produce something, anything, that someone else can read.
I make plans to do “takes” writing, writing about current affairs or culture from an unorthodox radical perspective, as the sort of bread and butter, my regular contributions. But I end up in the weeds with think pieces; even my “takes” end up going into range-y discussions of political philosophy or the large swath of broader issues. I write myself into a corner around the fourth or fifth draft, then start something new. I have at least a dozen longer form essays that I’ve written some of, and not completed, just from this project alone.
Breaking this habit will be difficult. I don’t really know where to start, other than reading Freddie DeBoer’s free e-book, “If You Absolutely Must,” a guide to aspiring writers. I have a tendency to want to write when I’m busy doing something else, and resisting the urge to write when I have all the time in the world. Making deadlines and carving out time to write is something I must do if I have any hope of salvaging this.
Pessimism: I hesitate to even write this section. Doubt is a powerful force, and unfortunately it can be quite contagious. The last thing I would wish, for anyone, is to feel like I’ve been feeling this year.
I’m not sure exactly when it happened or why. I think it had something to do with applying for an old job during an earlier period of unemployment this spring. I was certain I was a shoe-in for this job; I’d worked there before and done well, and left with a notice. I’d been put into specialty departments and had good working relationships with direct management. When I got the email that turned me down, I didn’t even read it completely; I was certain it was one of those form letters, saying they got the application and would reach out. It was some time later when I read the email and realized they’d told me they weren’t interested.
It’s a small thing. Not terribly life changing, in the scheme of things, although it was difficult to lose a promising work opportunity. But it was also the last snowflake to land on a mountain of doubt, leading to the avalanche I’ve been buried under for most of this year.
I've described myself as a Christian, an Appalachian, and a Socialist, in that order, for quite some time and in a number of different venues. Two of those core aspects of my identity came into question this year. (There's no question I'm Appalachian. I may not have developed a natural mountain accent, but this is where I was born, bred, and raised, where I've lived the majority of my life, where my family has lived for generations. These mountains, my beautiful elders, will always be a part of me.)
Part of the problem is having a "philosophy" or "ideology" as part of one's identity. Although that in itself is somewhat debatable; how much can we separate who we are from what we think and believe? The trouble, of course, comes when those ideas are called into question; what should be an academic exercise becomes an existential crisis. This problem is magnified if you're someone without much else to your core identity. My youthful aspirations to be a science fiction and fantasy writer died with the Bush Regime and its invasion of Iraq; my mind, my whole person, became devoted to politics. Old loves lost their appeal. I never developed hobbies, particularly tangible hobbies, that I could rely on to ground me in times of existential turmoil.
This is a bit of an exaggeration; I'm not someone who can only talk about politics or religion. I've had friends and love affairs, I've had books and music, movies and shows, to distract me in the past. But when this crisis began, in the post Covid world, I realized I'd lost much of my social network, and old things didn't interest me as they once did, they didn’t distract from the confusion and frankly anguish of my distress.
I decided not to write about the sources of my pessimism, the roots of my philosophical problems. As I said, doubt is contagious. Frankly, I don’t want anyone to go through what I’ve been through, and what I’m going through. Maybe I’ll try to post it when I have something approaching an answer.
But what does this have to do with writing? Well, it’s rather difficult to be a political writer when you are doubting your politics. I don’t mean moving to the “other side”, but questioning politics itself. And for someone who’s religious, troubling seeds of doubt make anything more difficult.
Simply put: I’m struggling with the desire to drop out. Give up hope in this or any other major political project. Maybe focus my political energy on one particular issue, something where I think I can make a difference. Maybe drop it altogether. Find meaning in something else. Start writing about other things like music or film, get into astronomy or fiction or poetry, start experimenting with hallucinogens, find employment outside the political realm. And when one starts thinking like that, it becomes difficult to unwind.
And maybe something like that is what I need for now, a brief respite to clear my head. The idea that it doesn’t have to be permanent is something I understand intellectually, but have a hard time accepting emotionally. Alternatively, the solution might be delving deeper into the politics of this project, trying to do more to enmesh myself in what I’m trying to do here. I don’t know. All I know is this has been holding me back.
Cowardice: Just as with doubt, I hesitated before writing this section. It is, for me, the scariest part, and by itself makes me wonder if I’m cut out for this kind of work.
I’m cursed with a certain intellectual ambivalence. On the one hand, I am a man with a number of controversial opinions. I don’t have these opinions to be “edgy,” or to try and get more attention. They are my honest opinions, things I’ve thought about and struggled over. I’ve looked through reason and intellect, emotion and compassion, through the words of others, and come to these conclusions that go against the grain, either in society at large or among my chosen tribe of “the Left”. Again: I don’t think these things to be edgy for its own sake; I believe in them as the right answer.
On the other hand, I’m terribly afraid of the consequences for believing what I believe. When it comes to taking the brave stand, standing up for what I believe even if it’s unpopular…well, somewhere along the way, I lost that. I’ve become a coward.
It didn’t used to be this way. I grew up in a rural community during the Bush era. In a fairly conservative culture (the county was largely dominated by Bush Democrats, who supported local and state Democrats but Republicans on the national level), I was among the most visible of the weird kids. I was a big guy with a mass of curly hair and an unkempt beard, wearing a big green poncho (hence the name) covered with buttons espousing various left leaning causes. I went to school every day as a challenge against the normative culture. I felt no interest in giving in, attempting to hide my “freak flag.” It led, at times, to physical violence. My support for Kerry in 2004 (only as a means to stop Bush, and a decision I later regretted) led to me being physically pushed, having things torn off my shirt, nearly being shoved down a flight of stairs, being cornered in bathrooms. We forget how frightening those times were, I think.
I’ve definitely grown since then. I have more understanding and respect for my neighbors than I did as an angsty left-wing kid in a conservative small town. I try to look less overtly radical; my shirts have buttons and collars, and the poncho that was my namesake is long gone, gifted away. My political thoughts have become more mature, more nuanced, and in many ways, as I said, more controversial. But I’ve also grown significantly more timid. Being as outrageous and courageous as I was in high school feels so alien to me know.
Yes, yes, you can blame “cancel culture.” There is an extent to which I agree. There absolutely is a chilling effect that happens when ideological correctness around social justice issues and imagery is so fiercely enforced. But I think there’s a more specific concern, as well. It isn’t just an amorphous thing called “Cancellation,” but something far more intimate: I don’t want to lose loved ones. I don’t think the things I believe are that terrible, though I know they go against the grain; but to some of my loved ones, they’re considered heresy. It isn’t just a matter of disagreeing; to many, even the slightest transgression against the narrative is essentially dehumanizing and attacking entire groups of people. I’ve lost people I’ve known for years, people I knew personally, for even the mildest expression of dissent. I’ve had people who I’ve lived with talk to me like I’m some sort of monster for disagreeing on the messaging around an issue, not even the issue itself.
I think about these friends of mine. And I don’t doubt their good intentions. I don’t think they’re bad people; they genuinely believe in the “woke” project (for lack of a better term) from what I can tell, and their enforcement of it comes from a place of genuine concern for the disenfranchised. However, the internet (among other things) has taught us that dissent is unacceptable, and the only recourse is one chance at education, followed by complete excommunication for the sinner.
And I’m genuinely afraid of that. I don’t want to lose these people I love and respect. If I had courage, I would speak my mind confidently and somehow be prepared to lose people along the way. I would stand up for what I believed to be right and fight for it, whatever the cost. It’s that kind of courage that has, in fact, helped to change the world. I feel like I’m sorely lacking in this department, and I’m not sure how to undo it, outside of echoing the grim acceptance of Tommy from Mr Mayor: “Cancellation comes to us all.”
The fact is, for every writer and dissident, there’s never been an “ideal time” to go against the grain, particularly when it’s about your own tribe. It shouldn’t need to be said, but of course I care about social justice, and whatever concerns I have for the atmosphere surrounding it doesn’t mean I don’t believe in racial and gender equality. To speak out is to take a courageous step, and it’s an area where I’m falling short.
In conclusion: I have no idea what to put here. There is a large part of me that desperately wants to succeed in this, even with the doubt and the fear. Trying to make that real is something I plan to work on. Becoming more disciplined, becoming less cowardly, and trying to find hope and optimism are tall orders, and I cannot guarantee my success. But it will be something towards which I put my effort, and hopefully come out with something worth doing.