Hello, my friends and the occasional relative!

In the land of bots does the genuine human rule? Unfortunately not, at present.

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I am reading The Inner Game of Tennis (again) as part of my re-engagement with playing pool regularly, and today read a section where everything really clicked for me, and I realized that I not only want to play the inner game of pool, but the inner game of writing.

What does this mean?

Well, as you may have noticed, my blogs have been a little spiky of late. The new book is making me question my reasons for writing, and my reasons for writing it in particular.

In chapter 8 of the Inner Game, the author describes going to a tennis tournament, and between matches realizing what he really wants from the tournament, from the game itself. To get over his own nervousness that was preventing him from playing his best. This rang a bell in me: that is precisely what I want in pool! And then, after a beat, I realized: and in writing too. My goal is to write the best that I can right now. To stop overthinking. To write for the joy of it, the experimentation of it, without expectations, or imaginings of what else it could be. Focused purely on the now of the writing. Not the future of the end of the book, or its publication or its aftermath. The now.

The preceding chapter had reminded me of the games I have played against myself, in pool, in writing, in life. Reminded me of what I don’t want to do anymore.

I can’t be perfect. I’m not sure there is a perfect sentence. Grammatically correct, yes, but perfect? Doesn’t that depend on context, and crucially, the reader? The inner game of writing has shown me why watching those YouTube advice videos were driving me crazy: they were inviting my inner perfectionist out to play.

I’m not going to make a perfect serve, hit the perfect break, write the perfect first, or any subsequent sentence. But you don’t have to, in order to play the game. Good is good enough, great is awesome. Workmanlike but effective keeps the game going.

I can’t force perfect pacing, adroit characterization, faultless plotting, any more than I can force a perfect draw shot, carom, or snooker. I can only be me, try my best, enjoy the process, and overcome my inner critic, quiet the voice of self 1 that wants to be in control of everything and instead let self 2 play, and write. Self 1 can edit later, if it must.

The inner game reminded me of my goal in writing. To write. I’ve done it all my life, it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. External goals, desire for validation, I wanted that a LOT when I was younger, not really so much recently, but the words always seemed a little hollow, a little uncertain, until today, on the treadmill, reading that book.

My inner 25 year old is cringing so hard at me right now. “Oh my god, he’s admitting a self-help book changed his life! In public! Ugh, let me die now!”

That guy wouldn’t let anyone read his words, he was so insecure. Nervousness ruled him. He didn’t really know what he wanted, so he wanted all the external stuff, because he thought it would mean what he really wanted it to be: that he was a talented writer, whatever that meant, and he wasn’t sure what criteria were employed to determine talent, he just wanted to know he had it through the recognition of others, and to be praised for it. Putting in the work? Well he’d written books hadn’t he? Three by then, but the two as a teen didn’t count. And no-one was allowed to read the third. What a mess I was about writing back then. That guy didn’t know how to relax, didn’t have any idea how to try his best, to improve.

I do. Well, I do more than I used to.

I’ve a lot more to learn, to become, potentially, but I can focus on doing my best right now, and in the process perhaps learn more about who I am as a writer, and possibly as a person. How cool is that?

Addictively cool, that’s how cool it is. The Inner Game lets me focus on the now, enjoy it, and let my writing unfold as it will. I spent three hours on my writing today. It was a good three hours.

I didn’t play pool, dammit.