On Needing Self-Discipline
Elizabeth Gilbert has a book about creativity called Big Magic. PopSugar calls it, “A must read for anyone hoping to live a creative life….” So naturally, I read it. I think the book is definitely a solid read for anyone currently living or trying to curate a creative life. I was going back through my annotations to see if there was anything from the book that I could use for my Creative Writing class. I was skimming and scanning all the different passages I had highlighted lots of different parts, but this one jumped out at me:
Tormented Artist:
– Drink as much as you possibly can
– Sabotage all your relationships
– Wrestle so vehemently against yourself that you come up bloodied every time
– Express constant dissatisfaction with your work
– Jealously compete against your peers
– Begrudge anybody else’s victories
– Proclaim yourself cursed (not blessed) by your talents
– Attach your sense of self-worth to external rewards
– Be arrogant when you are successful and self-pitying when you fail
– Honor darkness above light
– Die young
– Blame creativity for having killed you
And Gilbert writes, “It works great. Until it kills you.”
When I look at that list, there are a couple of items that especially stand out because I’m guilty of them. I mean, I definitely enjoy drinking. As a matter of fact, I’ve been more of a menace in my 30s than I ever was in my 20s. I wouldn’t say I sabotage all of my relationships, but — as evidenced by recent blog posts — I definitely don’t always choose the best relationships to exert my time and energy on.
The third item on the list really knocked me on my ass, though: Wrestle so vehemently against yourself you come up bloodied every time. I am — without a doubt — my own worst enemy. One of the first times I felt really seen by my mom was when she told me the song “Don’t Let Me Get Me” by P!nk reminded her of me. I try to be kind to myself. I was walking five miles five times a week for my physical and mental health, but I haven’t met that goal in weeks. I say it’s for my mental health, that I deserve to rest, that I have a lot going on. But those are excuses more than they are reasons, and I end up just rotting on the couch.
I think there’s a fine line between self-care and self-indulgence, and the latter almost always leads to self-destruction.
I think I need to get better at self-discipline. Sure, the idea of being a tormented artist has been romanticized and there are countless examples. Hell, Oscar Wilde called the artistic existence “one long, lovely suicide.” But if I want to write damn good stories and fall in love and see the world and suck the marrow out life, then I can’t submit to every inclination to be lazy. There has to be a balance.
On a seemingly unrelated note, one of the best compliments I’ve ever received was that I’m an open book. I’m proud of my utter inability to be fake. I would never want anyone spending precious time wondering how I feel about them.
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