That part where you start to hate all the work you've done

Photo by Richard Dykes on Unsplash

One of the most dependable parts of the process of creating, well, anything, is the moment I decide that whatever I’m working on is pointless, terrible, and of zero possible interest to any other person in the world.

It’s been a relief to realize that this experience isn’t unique to me (and, therefore, isn’t about the actual quality or utility of my work). Apparently many of us feel this way just as we get the point where the project at hand is becoming fully formed and on its way to being viable. In other words, the point where someone else might actually see it.

For me, writing inevitably triggers this moment, whether it’s academic writing or creative writing or this newsletter. But it shows up in other kinds of work, too: preparing a presentation, coming up with workshop ideas. It can even appear in projects around the house. I’m very excited to paint an accent wall until I hear a voice saying it’s stupid and will probably look bad, anyways.

Julia Cameron noted this trend in The Artist’s Way several decades ago, writing:

Many artists begin a piece of work, get well along in it, and then find, as they near completion, that the work seems mysteriously drained of merit. It’s no longer worth the trouble.

“Mysteriously drained of merit” is a much nicer way of saying “suddenly seems like a steaming pile of shit,” but it’s true (in my experience) that this feeling isn’t related to anything intrinsic to the work itself. It flashes onto the screen of my brain like an old-school pop-up ad telling me that what I’ve done is derivative, trite, and devoid of any useful insight.

Cameron goes on to note:

To therapists, this surge of sudden disinterest (“It doesn’t matter”) is a routine coping device employed to deny pain and ward off vulnerability. […] They call it detachment but it is actually a numbing out.

It’s no coincidence, then, that this feeling arises rather late in the process. Just as the prospect of putting our work out into the world becomes real, we’re seized with the very certain belief that it was never any good, anyways, and there’s no point in seeing it through.

So what do we do when this feeling grips our guts and sucks the life out of everything we’ve been working on?

Unfortunately, I don’t think it’s a curable condition. What I can offer are a few counter-thoughts to fight the powerful - but, ultimately, incorrect and deceitful - voice in your head.

1. Recognize it as a step in the process, as inevitable and foreseeable as finding a typo. “Oh hello there, sudden surge of doubt. Nice to see you again. You always seem to show up about now, don’t you?”

2. Remember that this feeling is kind of like what happens when you say a word over and over again until it loses all sense or meaning. You’ve been immersed in whatever you’re working on and of course your ideas start to seem obvious, less interesting, and more basic. You can’t see them with fresh eyes. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t still good.

3. Self doubt is not something to be vanquished, it is something to be outlasted.¹

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What I’m reading: Just started Sandwich, by Catherine Newman.

What I’m watching: Just finished The Åre Murders. 5 episodes that cover two short crime stories.

1. I think writer Steve Almond said that your main job as a writer is to outlast your self doubt.