An invitation to unlearn

... and then learning new ways

“Accept yourself, love yourself, and keep moving forward. If you want to fly, you have to give up what weighs you down.”
― Roy T. Bennett, The Light in the Heart

Dear Creative Soul,

This week, I’m feeling the pinch of time, so I’m sharing a piece written last month for my friends at

Feasts and Fables

as part of their Encourage Meant: Gift of Words series. At the end, I’ve shared links to some other fabulous posts in this series - do check them out, especially if you’re in need of some encouragement this week.

Enjoy!

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I am writing an essay about irony in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. It is after 10PM; my mother is on the phone, her muffled voice a comforting white noise. In the dim light, I write each word slowly, rounding each letter with painstaking care; I am concerned not only with argument and structure, but also my handwriting’s neat and elegant appearance. When I make a mistake, even if it is the next to last line, I rewrite the entire page – I am the top student in my English class, and perfection is my goal. At seventeen, I am blissfully unaware that I am embodying several of Austen’s themes on thin sheets of lined paper: pride, reputation, honour. I am proving her point, and I don’t know it.

More than thirty years later, I still struggle to write without thinking ahead to the outcome – submissions, publication, sales … and, if what I am writing is published, what will readers think?

I am trying not to attach so much to an outcome, especially in the early stages of writing and creating. And for the most part, here in “Substackia”, the words seem to flow, even when I think they won’t. I feel safe in this community I have found; I write as though purely for myself, even though my words are freely available and, once shared, I can’t help but hope that they will inspire, encourage, and resonate.  

Today is different. I dither with ideas and words. With what I want to say and how I want to say it. I type hopeful words onto a blank page and soon it is full of unfinished sentences and fragments. More than once I sigh with frustration at my inability to produce something in my allotted ‘free’ time. Perhaps I even swear under my breath.

When you are a writer around the edges, filling the gaps of life with words, time matters.

There is another problem too. Without meaning to, I have already attached an outcome to my words – a ‘gift’ essay relating to Feast and Fables’ life-living Encouragement Manifesto; I want my words to give something to readers. To resonate. Except … I am still catching up to myself after an overwhelming work week and everything I write sounds forced, especially after I read some of the beautiful and heartfelt pieces already submitted. And that’s when another bothersome acquaintance pops in for a visit.   

Anxiety has stolen my sleep, tossed it into the wilderness of worry. I have meditated, listened to sleep stories, read pages of my book until my eyes felt sandy; I have done everything I can do to relax the worry out of me, and it’s not working. As each hour passes, the need for sleep becomes more urgent: I have a full day of work ahead and, after that, I have to run a writing workshop. I can’t breathe; my chest is tight, and I want to cry but I can’t because that will make it worse. Why on earth did I say yes? What do I really have to offer? My book isn’t even published yet. You’re not even a real writer and no one is going to care about your stupid workshop on … overcoming self-doubt.

(Ah, the burning irony of a sucker punch from the very thing you’re going to teach about.)

This is what I have learned – when Regina (she is rather a Mean Girl) pops in to my unexpected writer’s pity party (joining Perfectionism, Fatigue and Comparison-itis), it’s time to make a quick French Exit (aka Irish Goodbye).

When the act of creating is an effort rather than a joy, I do something else: make a cup of tea or coffee, go for walk in nature, bake. Whatever I need to do to unwind and clear my mind. To let go of what is weighing me down: high expectations (of myself), worry, never-ending to-do lists, my ego and attachment to outcome. Frustration at having to write around the edges, at the words that don’t flow on cue.

Photo by Pascal Müller on Unsplash

It is sunset and my husband and I are walking on the beach, hand in hand. Tiny white crabs dig into the wet sand seconds before our feet reach them; we pause as waves tumble a pair of fighting (or mating) crabs – the water recedes and they are still joined together, pincers waving. The water is cool, not cold; later we will wade in, past the point where choppy waves crash onto the sandbar, and the water will wrap us in a liquid embrace. Our footprints leave deep, transitory imprints in the sand, alongside dozens of others – men, women, children, dogs, seagulls. But what stops me, what sends a spark of knowing into my writer’s heart is a line of tiny toddler footprints next to a set of larger ones. These small footprints are unsteady, unsure – the faltering footprints of someone learning to walk. A word comes to me: unlearn.

Unlearn.

There on the beach, what I am yet to unlearn flashes across a gilded sky: the conditioning I have grown up with; the expectations I place on myself.

The harsh ways of talking to myself, ways I would never speak to another human.

The ‘work first then play’ conditioning that unbalances my creative life.

A lifetime of uplifting busy.

That my value as a writer does not come from how many subscribers I have, how many books I sell, how many comments I get on social media.

I have come a long way in this unlearning. And in doing so, I am learning to accept and love myself, to accept the unique imperfectly perfect me. I am learning to keep moving forward because I want to create, not live a life of unfulfilled creative desires.

I want my creativity to soar, even if it only soars in my heart.

This, I think, is my biggest life lesson. I think I will keep learning it until the day I die.

Driving home, my husband is talking but words and ideas are swirling. I think, what if in this space we are not only connecting with creatives and finding a safe space to write, but helping each other learn and unlearn?

What if this is why I have found my way here in this season of my creative life?

And …

What if by sharing the truth of me in this space, I am both learning to unlearn and helping others learn what they need to unlearn?

I sit at my desk once more. Tea brews in a vintage teacup I found at a London market almost seven years to this day; it is a Scottish thistle design, a gift to myself after running a writing retreat in Northern Ireland and attending the London Book Fair. I read a few posts that catch my eye, save a few for later. There is so much good writing to take in – too much, honestly, if I want to have a balanced life. I answer a few comments on notes. In the past twelve months, I found a community. A connection to likeminded souls. A refreshed mindset to my own creativity.

But it has only just occurred to me today that I have also found a safe way and a space to unlearn.

To experiment.

To evolve.

I think back to that self-doubt writing workshop. The day after keeping myself awake all night, I wrote a blog post about the irony of self-doubt. Later that night, in a tiny studio above an art gallery, I tentatively shared that post with the gathered writers. It opened a gateway to honest, raw communication about the writing life. We laughed. Cried. Ranted a little.

The sun sets earlier a little each day now. March is the third hottest month in Perth, but I take comfort in knowing that the subtle seasonal shift has begun. And I think about the shifts that happen within us when others are generous with their creative realities – the good, the bad, the indifferent. When we share the hard stuff, when we share our truth. For us, as writers, it is cathartic; for readers, it can be encouraging, empowering, affirming.

When we are open about the challenges we face, when we share the vulnerable parts of our journey, we can help create a sense of a shared experience.

An opportunity to learn. And unlearn.

An invitation to experiment. 

If you’re a creator in this space, just think – your words might shine a light for someone else navigating a dark road.

By sharing what weighs you down, by sharing what you are learning to unlearn, you might help someone else fly alongside you.

Imagine that.

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To read more from the Gift of Words series, I recommend “Valuing Words” by Matthew Long, which explores value in relationships created in this space; "Showing Up" by Roberta's Substack; and "Kindness is a superpower" by Vanessa Simpson.