I’m struggling with my writing. Which is to say that I’m struggling with life.

In Letters To A Young Poet, Rainer Maria Rilke writes, “There is only one way. Go into yourself. Examine the reason that bids you to write; check whether it reaches its roots into the deepest region of your heart, admit to yourself whether you would die if it should be denied you to write. This above all: ask yourself in your nights’s quietest hour: must I write? Dig down into yourself for a deep answer. And if it should be affirmative, if it is given to you to respond to this serious question with a loud and simple ‘I must’, then construct your life according to this necessity; your life right into it’s most inconsequential and slightest hour must become a sign of witness to this urge.”

When I read this at the beginning of last year I thought, that’s a tad dramatic, no? Like sure, It would suck if I couldn’t write but I’d adapt. I’d find some other creative outlet, I’d find a different way to live a fulfilled life. I certainly wouldn’t die. So my life was like, “bet?” and I didn’t write for about seven months after and yes, I didn’t die but I didn’t want to be alive either.

The upside of the last few years is I now feel capable of surviving, or maybe just enduring, the unimaginable. Obviously, I’d rather not, but if I had to, I know I would make my way through, I know I would take whatever scraps remained and make a decent meal, a liveable life. I know that because a) my body wouldn’t give me a choice—it would juts keep doing its thing until the end and b) I would write my way through. I really do believe that as long as I can write, I can survive anything, I can live any kind of life, I can be any kind of person. I think when it really comes down to it, the one thing I couldn’t survive is not being able to write.

But lately, I don’t feel like I’m good at writing. These past few months, I feel like I’ve lost my sense of what good writing is. I’m not saying that so people can tell me that they think my writing is good. Like, I’m sure that’s true for them and yes, it’ll be nice to hear but my problem isn’t a lack of external validation. Most of my writing life, even when my writing hasn’t been objectively good, I’ve wanted to do it. Because it was important for me: it was my way of processing my life, of establishing meaning and purpose and also for my ego—I had this thing that came relatively easy to me, a thing that I was relatively better at than most people; I was talented! Lately, I write less for myself and more for the craft of it. Yes, it’s still my way of processing the world, and therefore my life, but my writing is less a semi-public journal and more a technical exercise in craft. In other words, the entire point of my writing is to make it good. The emotional component is just an added benefit.

I think part of that is a natural consequence to moving towards being primarily a fiction writer. Craft makes good fiction. The life and emotional stuff only resonates because the craft is good. I started writing fiction more because I needed a break from my life. Which is kind of funny because you’re never not writing about yourself no matter what you write. But I noticed I was beginning to resent my writing; to resent this self-imposed need to turn my life into stories. Because these last few years have been so traumatic, it felt like I was mining my trauma for stories. I don’t know. I just wanted to get through the pain without feeling like I needed to turn it into some profound, resonant shit. Like yeah, pain is often profound and a gateway to introspection but it’s also just pain. Often, there’s no point to it. It’s just your organs malfunctioning. So I’m writing fiction instead because I want to do this thing that I love, to have a lens to see the world through, to hopefully say something meaningful and honest and personal about the human condition without marinating in the shit of my life. Yes, I’m still in there somewhere but I’m not front and centre, I’m not performing my trauma for “relatability.” But maybe in striving to put this boundary between my life and my writing, I’ve gotten so fixated in creating technically good writing, I’ve gotten disconnected from me. I know my writing has heart and soul (I’m me, I couldn’t create hollow writing if I tried) but more and more, the point has been trying to fit the heart into the narrative logic of a story and not the other way round. The heart is inherent yes, but it’s still secondary.

So I’m stuck. I look at my stories and I don’t think they’re good and even worse, I don’t know how to make them good. I recognise that a lot of that is just feeling. That it’s something that all writers struggle with. And even if it were true, it’s just a matter of practice, of relentlessly going back to a story until you crack it. But I cannot bring myself to go back to these stories. Again, I feel like I don’t know what to do with them. I feel like I don’t know how to do anything, like I’m incompetent at life. I don’t think this is healthy but the longer I go without writing, the less capable I feel of being alive.

I feel like a bad writer. Like maybe I’m just lazy and unmotivated and really, not that talented and instead of just facing that, I’m writing a self-pitying soliloquy. I feel like a bad person, not bad like immoral though that’s always part of it, but bad like not good at being a person. I know the solution: I just need to read and keep writing until this feeling passes. I know that in a month or six, I’ll remember why I love writing so much, that I’ll read these stories that feel like shit to me now and I’ll like them and I’ll know exactly what to do with them. I know this is just a phase, and it will pass. So I guess this is a reminder for next year’s or ten years from now Clarie; for the next time you read a draft and think what the fuck is this shit? It will pass. The thing that makes you a good writer is that you always go back to writing, no matter how long you stay away. Because you’re simply incapable of not writing. It’s probably your only good compulsion. Also, I know you worry so much about craft and it might be something you’re insecure about for a really long time, maybe the rest of your life, but don’t you ever let that invalidate the merits of writing with your whole heart. To the best of your ability your writing is as vulnerable and as honest as it could be. Different writers ave different strengths and this is yours. It means everything.

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In other news, I’m working as an editor for Debunk women. We’re looking for African female writers willing to write essays, op-eds, feature stories, profiles, Q&As, etc on a variety of subjects. We’re looking for well written stories—stories that complicate girlhood and womanhood, stories with a unique point of view, humour and heart. We’re open to writers with all levels of experience. Rates start from Ksh.10000 for 800 words and go up depending on length and level of reportage. Email me pitches, drafts or for clarification at clarie.gor@debunk.media.

Photo by Eugene Chystiakov on Unsplash