Personal Growth Means Learning How to Be Miserable
My writing deadline is here.
I thought I was going to crush it, but here I am, at the list minute, trying to pull something out of my ass.
I was so excited this past new year’s, when my husband and I decided to become accountability partners and for once, I set myself some real, concrete goals.
I saw it as a bright, shiny epiphany — that accountability was the magical ingredient that was going to finally get me to write consistently.
I imagined myself scratching off the dates, one by one. And at the end of 2020, I’d have 24 published blog posts as opposed to the 7 or 8 that I’ve had the past 2 years. It just seemed right.
For a while I’ve waited for some magical thing to happen that will just unlock my talent, and my work ethic. To turn on whatever gene needs to be turned on for me to start churning out brilliance.
Maybe even at some point I’d start loving the writing process instead of dreading it and constantly fighting the powerful urge to avoid it.
I just keep waiting for that moment when I’m no longer struggling, and everything just flows. I’m in my zone.
I see other bloggers just churning out posts and feeling happy and energized, gaining momentum.
They aren’t miserable like me.
I wonder if they were once miserable. If they ever hated their writing. If they ever doubted themselves so deeply that they thought very seriously about quitting — which seems like something I do weekly now.
The self-doubt is unbearable. It’s sad. It hurts deep down in my soul when I feel like I can’t write well. When my writing voice disappears.
But maybe none of that matters. Maybe being miserable is just part of the process.
Developing a skill is painful. Its freaking humiliating and vulnerable. I mean, what was I thinking, this was going to be a cake walk? Sharing my art with people? Writing it well? Subjecting it to criticism? Worrying about whether I have what it takes?
Maybe I could just accept the misery. I mean, most of my struggle right now is coming from the expectation that I shouldn’t be struggling. That if I had any talent, I’d be able to come up with the perfect words for everything and hit that “publish” button right on time and pour a glass of wine to celebrate.
I think these are terrible, unrealistic expectations. They are understandable though. Every blog post I see from James Clear is crisp and helpful and well written. But how much misery did he have to endure when he first started his blog? How many hours did he sit banging his head against the wall?
I’ve heard it said before. Novelist and screenwriter Steven Pressfield compared his writing practice to his time in the Marines.
In his book, The War of Art, he says:
“Marines love to be miserable. Marines derive a perverse satisfaction in having colder chow, crapper equipment, and higher casualty rates than any outfit of dogfaces, swab jockeys, or flyboys, all of whom they despise. Why? Because those candy-asses don’t know how to be miserable.”
“The artist committing himself to his calling has volunteered for hell, whether he knows it or not. He will be dinning for the duration on a diet of isolation, rejection, self-doubt, despair, ridicule, contempt and humiliation.”
“The artist must be like that Marine. He has to love being miserable. He has to take pride in being more miserable than any soldier or swabbie or jet jockey. Because this is war, baby. And war is hell.”
If you want a really strong body, you have to be miserable. You have to get up at the crack of dawn and run out in the freezing cold or the sweltering heat.
You have to do squats, for Pete’s sake.
If you want to learn to play the trumpet, you have to deal with sounding like a broke-down elephant for a while before you get better. You have to annoy your neighbors and family while you practice. It’s embarrassing and discouraging.
If you want to change your diet, you have to sit and stoically eat your kale salad while you watch your coworkers eat the pizza they ordered.
But misery isn’t just for the sake of self-torture. There’s a reason behind it.
This misery matters because it means you get to become more of who you are.
It’s the price we have to pay for true personal growth.
Maybe there’s nothing at all wrong with me.
I’m good and miserable, just like I should be.
