The Three-Headed Writing Beast

The Three-Headed Writing Beast

Let’s uncover the true villain in every writer’s saga. It's not the intimidating blank page (though that’s a close runner-up), nor is it your editor’s merciless red pen or the existential mishaps of autocorrect. Instead, picture a three-headed beast lounging in your mind, savoring your coffee, and snickering, “Is this sentence any good, or did you guzzle too much caffeine?” I’m talking about the unruly trio: self-doubt, that ever-fickle motivation, and the eternal tug-of-war between creativity and practicality.

Self-Doubt: Your Brain’s Unwanted Backseat Navigator

Imagine self-doubt as not merely a feeling but a full-blown critic, megaphone in hand. You’re halfway through a paragraph when it whispers, “Hemingway never loaded his sentences with this many adverbs, did he?” It turns “write what you know” into “but who really cares what you know?” Ironically, writers thrive on dissecting human complexities, yet we treat our own work like a ham-handed middle-school diary. The truth? Self-doubt is the price you pay for caring. Without it, you’d churn out words like a thesaurus-happy chatbot. Instead, doubt becomes that meddlesome roommate rearranging your mental furniture—you can’t simply evict it, so you learn to acknowledge it, roll your eyes, and keep writing. Even Hemingway stumbled through his drafts.

Motivation: That Quixotic Friend on a Perpetual Quest

Motivation is the most unreliable muse around. One minute it strolls in sporting a stylish beret, proclaiming, “Today, we’ll conquer 10,000 words!” and the next, it ghosts you for weeks to “find itself.” The myth of divine inspiration is a trap; writing isn’t a celestial event but a habit—like flossing or pretending to understand cryptocurrency. The secret is to treat motivation like a delicate houseplant: water it every day (i.e., show up), let it bask in routine sunlight, and accept that some days it’ll look rather wilted. Progress isn’t measured by pure passion; it’s about persistence. Even crafting a single sentence amid existential crisis is a victory. Picture Shakespeare, penning Hamlet between sips of lukewarm ale, grumbling, “To be or not to be? Ugh, this is messy—but someone will fix it later.”

Creativity vs. Practicality: The Battle of Unlikely Roommates

Here’s the timeless rivalry: the unfettered artist dreaming up a 900-page epic about sentient sea cucumbers versus practicality, the responsible roommate reminding you that rent is due. Creativity craves boundless experiments, while practicality nudges you toward a TikTok-friendly rom-com of cucumbers in love. This isn’t about choosing one over the other; creativity without practicality is a delightful hobby, and practicality without creativity is nothing more than a bland memo. Real magic blooms in the messy middle—where you blend your brilliant quirks with the reality of deadlines, bills, and the fact that most people won’t bat an eyelash at an existential sea cucumber crisis unless it’s wearing a top hat. The compromise? It’s writing that top-hat subplot while setting a timer to hit the sack by midnight, scribbling avant-garde verses at 2 a.m. and waking at 6 a.m. to make them marketable. Art and commerce aren’t mortal enemies; they’re frenemies who occasionally swap outfits.

Conclusion: So Why Bother? (We’re All Doomed Anyway)

Why wrestle with this three-headed beast? Because writing—like life—is a gloriously absurd act of defiance. You’ll doubt yourself, lose motivation, and curse the universe when your genius isn’t “on-brand.” But here’s the twist: the beast isn’t your adversary—it’s the fiery crucible that forges your voice. Every time you overpower self-doubt, you’re boldly declaring, “I’m still here.” Each time you coax motivation out of its cave, you prove that discipline beats fleeting inspiration. And every time you strike that delicate balance between creativity and practicality, you construct a bridge between your dreams and the real world—a world that desperately craves your stories, even if they revolve around existential sea cucumbers.

So keep that beast well-fed with your fear, messy drafts, and stubborn hope. And when it growls, “This isn’t good enough,” just smirk and retort, “Neither are you. Now pass the coffee.”

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BUTTERFLIES AND MARTINIS

Liz Dubelman

Ryan and I met at a bar over martinis. He moved in on our three-month anniversary and to commemorate the occasion he bought us this beautiful martini set. He was so sweet and thoughtful, but lately he’d been feeling so distant.

One day last week Ryan was out, which is my favorite time to clean. I like to put on his big Harvard sweatshirt, blast the Go-Go’s, and when I’m all done I reward myself with a dirty Vodka martini. I appreciate the irony.

That day, though, I couldn’t find the sweatshirt. Or the Go-Go’s. No matter, I pulled on a ratty old sweater, put on the Bangles, and set to work.

I started in the bathroom. I loved that Ryan used a brush and shaving soap. It was so retro. But where were they? His toothbrush was on the sink, but I couldn’t find his shaving stuff. My stomach was suddenly infested with butterflies. A thought occurred to me: he’s moving out. I sat down to make a list. If I found ten things missing, I would know the butterflies were right and that Ryan was slowly moving away.

An hour later I’d listed the sweatshirt, the Go-Go’s, the brush, the soap, his Mets cap, his father’s compass, his copy of Atlas Shrugged, his Modern Romance DVD, and his reading glasses. Nine things, not ten, and that was even counting the brush and soap separately.

Relieved, I decided to celebrate with my martini. I opened the cabinet and saw something that made all the butterflies call their friends over: a single martini glass.