Even if it’s bad

Eight years ago I started writing for myself. Before then, every character I typed went towards a professor’s stipulated word-count. Writing was an assignment, not a pleasure.

Watching Woody Allen’s biography is what tipped me. Early in his career he wrote acts for a dinner show. Twice a week, every week, the beclub needed 4-hours of new material, and Woody had to write all of it; feeling inspired or not.

His dinner show experience struck me in a profound way. Allen trained to be as much a litterary machine as an artist. Churning out material by quantity, not necessarily quality. Surely, he wrote some great material in those years. And surely, he wrote some aweful material in those years.

However, he always wrote.

I wanted to write too. However, I was too critical of my work. My inner critic expected a level of quality that the writer in me had yet matured to articulate. Simply put, my expectation of my own ability undermined my confidence to practice.

Woody’s biography was the catalyst that changed me.

One article a day was the quota I assigned myself. Not an article scribbled in my journal, but one published on my personal blog. No longer could I patiently await inspiration that rarely came. Every single day I had to produce, inspired or not.