Not Write

But do it right.

Have no fear of perfection - you'll never reach it.

Salvador Dali

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Not Write

What should I do? I don't know exactly what I'm doing. But should I write? Should I not write? Right, not write. That'll be the day.

I don't understand what's going on with my brain when I start writing and I haven't written in a while. Or if I'm in a funk and I can't figure out what to write and nothing is right that I'm writing about. And then I read about how things should be structured when you write. That you should make sure not to use extra words as you write. It's not right when you write without making sure you condense your word count to make your writing more right, so you write less.

But I really don’t enjoy that. I do it, it works. It’s good advice. But there are times where I do that and it completely destroys what I was writing. And then I want to give up.

But then what should I do, not write?

Right.

That's not going to happen. I don't understand why my brain wants to tell me that if I don't do this then I'm done, I'm a failure, or I'll never complete these things that I have in my head, and I'll never be a good writer. If I don’t make sure the words that a write, in order to ensure I write right, don’t run on too long within one sentence, so I don’t have too large of a sentence, one with too many words, of which I have forgotten what that sentence would be called, I swear it’s right on the tip of my tongue.

I certainly hope I never make that mistake, either.

And I hope I never ramble in my journey to write right.

Correctly.

But the problem is the journey was never about becoming a great writer. It was about writing. Hell, it wasn’t even about the act of writing itself. This journey is meant to provide guidance to my children, myself, and ensure I have something to provide them when I’m gone.

With the true purpose being a way to mitigate the fallout if my worst fear came true. Leaving them too early.

Writing felt like the best way to go. But must I write well?

Sorry, write right.

The potential to write well was there. Perhaps even the potential to have people agree or declare that I produce great writing. But that was never the goal. That was never the purpose. Yet somehow I'm here and I worry about that. I worry how it's seen, I'm worried how it'll be judged.

Working through this fear and attempting to understand it has me somewhat contemplative. I don't think that worry is inherently bad, but I do fear worry affects me more than it should.

I write something and I crumble it up and I throw it away. I write something and then I delete the file. I write something and I hate it and I store it away forever.

I think that's all part of a natural process and that's okay.

Then I write something but it isn't as perfect as what I've read before. Or it isn't as perfect as what I've written myself before. Then I throw it away and that to me seems ill advised.

Now, I don't believe it's bad to compare. To what extent I’m not sure.

I don't think it's bad to look to improve. Those are great qualities when you’re looking to produce great quality. But if it's going to keep me from writing, well, those things can go fuck off.

Ya’ll, let me take a breath. I’m writing all this in one go so my head brain doesn’t get rid of it. Because it sure as shit wants to.

Wait, I shouldn’t put conversational or “in-person” occurrences in written work like this. Damn, another problem. Let’s get back to the main… idea.

Honestly, my main concern is whether the content conveys what I’m trying to express—making sure people understand what I’m saying, that it’s easy to comprehend, or at the very least possible to comprehend. If that’s not the goal—if clarity and understanding aren’t the ultimate objectives, especially in terms of writing ability—then what’s the point? Because in the end, that’s the only thing that really matters.

Sure, I might not get as much attention as someone else who's more eloquent or captivating, and that’s fine. I never expected to, to be honest. It’s difficult to achieve that level of recognition; very few people do. I’m certainly not going to be as popular as the Bible or Tolkien. So, what is this arbitrary measuring stick I’m holding myself to when it comes to the quality of the written word? It’s absurd.

That said, I do care about the quality of what I provide to others—what I give to you. And I apologize for the times it hasn’t been up to par. I also apologize for the times it’s been painfully obvious that I relied too much on standard structure, which ended up making the piece feel like a poorly conceived high school essay. I have a lot of issues with how we teach writing in schools, and yet, sometimes, I feel the need to conform to those rules.

Like when I start with, “I’m going to argue with three paragraphs, and then I’ll end with a conclusion.” Okay, cool—but boring. Now, I actually agree with the idea of having a clear structure where the reader knows upfront what the piece is about. That’s fine. Don’t leave me hanging until the end only to reveal it’s about, say, preserving the microbes in the silt of a riverbed in the middle of nowhere. If that’s not clear from the beginning, I’ll feel like I’ve wasted my time. So, yeah, the skeleton of structure? I’m on board with that. But everything else in between—that bland, vanilla rigidity? I’m not a fan. I don’t believe clinging to that approach indefinitely benefits anyone.

I do, however, believe creative restriction can be useful. It can broaden creative ability on a large scale and even lead to the creation of absolute masterpieces within that framework. But tools, if used improperly, can do more harm than good. A hammer is great for driving a nail—if you’re paying attention and not swinging wildly. Get distracted, miss the nail, and smash your pinky? You’re in pain. You might even throw the hammer out of frustration. Hopefully not, but you might.

And if you try to use a hammer for something it’s not meant for—like fixing an electrical issue with your main breaker—you’re asking for trouble. Chances are, you’re going to break something, and unless you’ve taken the proper precautions (which, let’s be honest, you probably haven’t if you’re swinging a hammer at your breaker), you’re also going to get electrocuted.

Let me talk not of tools, for that shall never end…

I’ve wrestled with these words long enough, and now it’s time to let them go. Time to let you—my children, my audience, my echoes—know why I’ve sat with this endless dance of doubt and paper, why I’ve poured myself into the messy act of writing.

It isn’t perfection I’ve sought, though for too long I thought it was. It wasn’t the applause of strangers, though I let myself dream about it sometimes. It was for you. It was always for you.

I wanted to leave something behind. Something more than the memories that might fade, more than the few trinkets and old photographs that could someday feel more like relics than connections. I wanted to leave my thoughts, my fears, my heart poured out in words. I wanted to leave the kind of truth that takes time to understand, the kind of truth you might need one day when I’m not here to say it out loud.

But I worried, and I still do. I worried the words wouldn’t be good enough, or clear enough, or worth enough. I worried you’d read them and think, This isn’t Dad. That you’d find the mistakes, the insecurities, and not the message. Or worse, that you wouldn’t read them at all.

What I’ve realized, through all the scribbles and second guesses, is that writing is my way of being present—even when I can’t be. It’s taking the tangled thoughts in my heart and giving them shape, something you can hold onto when the days feel long, or the distance feels too wide. It’s my way of reaching out, hoping the words will meet you where you are, even if I can’t.

So, if this is all I ever leave you, let it be this: Write. Write your thoughts, your doubts, your joys, and your fears. Write when you don’t feel ready. Write when it feels like no one will care. Write because someday, someone might. Write because someday, you’ll look back and realize that in writing, you were never alone.

This is what I’m trying to show you. Not that I was a great writer. Not that I had all the answers. Just that I cared enough to try, and that trying—however clumsy, however flawed—was the point all along.

I hope you’ll see that. I hope you’ll hear my voice in these words. And I hope that, when you need it, they’ll feel like home.

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