The Weight of Writing

At my tween daughter’s request, she and I watched a couple episodes of My 600-lb life. We moved on from that and have been watching 1000-lb sisters. I wasn’t surprised by what I felt watching these shows (pity and bewilderment, among other things); I anticipated that those sentiments would come up. Instead, what struck me were the parallels I saw to my own life. I’ve never battled my weight, but I struggle in other ways.

I’ve watched this show and how they:

• Keep making excuses for not eating right or not exercising.

  
  

• Start off trying to develop good habits and maybe do what is needed for a short time but ultimately get discouraged, ask themselves some version of ‘what’s the point?’ and give up. Like they might even lose a few pounds but inevitably revert right back to their old ways.

  
  

• Descend into self-loathing for not being further along (bonus points for watching others around them succeed where they have failed.

  
  

• Have no one to blame but themselves.

  
  

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Well, I do the same thing with my craft: I make excuses for not writing. Or, I start off fine for a couple days, maybe even make some progress in the story, and then fall off the wagon. And then I hate myself for it over and over again–especially the older I get. I wanted to be a published author by age 30. I’m almost 40 and seeing others publish their third, fifth, twelfth bestseller. And this is no one’s fault but my own.

Although I don’t blame other people for where I am in life (something that differs from me and some of the people featured on these television programs), I do blame other things. I’m not writing because: I’m tired. I’d rather chill with my husband. I’d rather relax, period. I’m spending time with my daughter (valid, but then after she goes to sleep why am I scrolling my phone instead of increasing my word count?). I’m prepping for teaching/actually teaching. I can’t think of any ideas right now. I’m stuck on this dialogue. I’m stuck on the middle section of my novel. I need to do more research (I’m writing historical fiction). I’m volunteering today. I have meetings today. And in the past year, I’ve added two additional excuses so it’s only getting worse: 1) I have perimenopausal brain fog and it’s harder to think lately and 2) Well, what if they think I used Chat GPT for my historical novel (which I’d never do, for the record) and I’m falsely accused and no one believes me?

And the biggest one that’s been with me from the beginning: What If I Fail?

My biggest dream in life is to be a novelist. I have other book projects in mind too (and had made a significant dent in an essay collection a few years ago that started to collect dust as I lost motivation, then momentum (or was it the momentum first? Hmmm, chicken or egg).

Sure, I’m not going to die (at least, not die physically) if I don’t complete and publish this book. When it comes to losing 500 pounds or writing 500 pages, the sense of urgency is indisputably greater for the former. And I definitely recognize that their chronic health issues (along with being loathed and mocked by society) are way harder than my feeling uncomfortable sometimes at parties when people ask what I do for a living. I know our challenges are not the same.

And YET, I feel a kinship with the people on these shows. I can’t relate to their particular obstacles but in watching these shows, I am seeing even more clearly how much I am holding myself back. I’m sitting here sulking about authorship but I’m not doing much about it. It’s not that I don’t care — and I believe many overweight people do care too — but do we care enough to make the change? Clearly not. The status quo is too comfortable, even in its discomfort. So as they can’t seem to put down the cheeseburger, I just can’t seem to pick up my pen.