How to write like an abstract painter

The recovering perfectionist's guide to releasing fear, surrendering control, and having more fun in your writing practice.

"Abstract art. What a ridiculous waste of time. Meaningless splashes of paint on a canvas. Dabs and doodles that any three-year-old could have made. And people actually buy this crap? Give me a break…"

That’s what I used to think about abstract art. (Please, don’t judge me.)

I’ve dabbled in many art forms ever since I was a child. I’ve told stories, drawn pictures, acted in plays, sung, and played multiple musical instruments. As I entered adulthood, something happened to my creativity. It went from being a playful and relaxing activity, to a serious pursuit laden with anxiety and internal resistance. I developed a new approach to creating that went something like this:

1. Overdose on courses, books, and tutorials.

2. Plan, strategize and outline everything in advance.

3. Compare myself to the best in the world. (Thank you, Internet.)

4. Procrastinate for a few weeks.

5. And then finally squeeze something out, slowly and excruciatingly, with jaws clenched, and my inner critic mumbling insults in the background.

I became a chronic perfectionist. And it’s held me back ever since.

Perfectionism is based in fear - the fear of failing, of wasting time, of embarrassing ourselves, and being judged by others. In order to avoid these fears, we become obsessive control freaks. And being a control freak is pretty much a guarantee that nothing fun or thrilling or surprising ever comes out of you, because it has to first pass through the fine-mesh filter of your own high expectations and harsh judgement.

Having this attitude — towards painting or poetry or fiction or any other art form — makes you an incredibly dull person. A real party pooper. It will make creative pursuits both more difficult and less fun. And it’s an even greater problem for someone trying to make a living from their creativity.

A few years ago, I grew tired of my perfectionist, control freak, party pooper ways, and I decided to do something radical about it. I decided to — just for fun — try painting abstract art. Simply because it was the most pointless, childish, and...well, abstract activity I could think of. If I could embrace painting abstracts then surely I could get over my aversion to poetry, and my crippling anxiety around writing fiction. At least it couldn’t hurt to try.

In order to paint abstracts, I had to adopt a differerent strategy from the one I was used to. The complete opposite strategy. Which is no strategy at all. No pre-planning or sketching. No inspiration or references. Just me and the blank paper.

*cue horror movie violins*

My first course of action was... reading a book about abstract painting. (Of course.) From that book, I learned three important concepts:

1. You cannot “fail” an intuitive painting. There’s no objective failure criteria. It’s only your own judgements (i.e. “yellow is hideous”, “I don’t like the shape of that brushstroke”) that create the feeling of having failed.

2. "Ugly" paintings are neccessary. You can’t get the beautiful without the ugly. You need to embrace all of it.

3. You already have an artistic style, identity, and voice. You just need to reveal it by creating from intuition, following what feels right and exciting and pleasurable. You won’t find it by comparing, forcing and overthinking.

Right. Sounds simple enough. Surely, I could do this.

And yet, the first time I tried making an abstract painting, I was terrified. And I didn’t even know why. “No one needs to see this, ever” I thought to myself. “There’s absolutely no ill consequence if I fail and produce something ugly. I could burn it afterwards. So what am I afraid of?”

I was afraid of the discomfort of sucking. The discomfort of embarrassing myself, of not living up to my own high expectations, of being a noob — literally paralyzed me. I almost didn’t dare put brush to paper. And every time I did, I constantly judged and second-guessed myself. Just like I do while writing.

My worst nightmare came true. I did create hideous art.

And I eventually started liking it, in a weird way.

Once I got over that initial paralysis, I got lost in the process. My loud-mouth, nitpicking inner critic grew more silent. I lost track of space and time. I became less concerned about the outcome, and more willing to experiment and have fun. I even made a few paintings that I really liked.

At some point, I went to work on another painting-in-progress. One that actually depicted something, and therefor triggered my need to “get it just right”. I immediately fell back into my old ways: over-thinking, re-doing my mistakes, obsessing over details. I struggled for hours until I realized that I wasn’t having fun at all. I was just tormenting myself. It felt very similar to every time I’ve tried NaNoWriMo. Every time I’ve faced a blank text document. Every time I’ve written a first draft of a story. The same exact “this is not fun, why is it not fun, it should be fun” feeling.

I’ve always been puzzled by people who claim to take pleasure in creative writing. That flowing, dream-like state they describe, where “the characters have a mind of their own” and “the story basically writes itself”. It makes me so jealous. My own fiction writing process more resembles that of a furrow-browed chess player, thinking for 20 minutes before moving each piece. A lot of effort. Very little ease and spontaneity.

And yet there I was, painting abstract watercolor paintings for hours, with my inner critic away on vacation. And soon finding myself pleasantly surprised at what I’d created. Loving the carelessness of it. The honesty.

What if I applied the same concepts to my writing?

• Being fine with sitting down to write, not knowing what will come out of me.

• Trusting my intuition and channeling instead of over-planning.

• Putting all judgement aside and embracing the ugly: the clichés, the cardboard cut-out characters, the plot holes, the bad grammar.

• Creating from a comparison-free sanctuary. Being blissfully unaware of what people more talented and experienced than me are doing.

• Letting myself have fun while making a mess.

It's my dream to one day complete a novel. The longest I've ever managed is around 35 000 words. I have a long list of story ideas that I would love to bring to life. Some of those, I have turned into finished stories. But the process has been filled with doubt, anxiety and frustration.

I'm the same way with my essay writing. I have a long list of all the topics I “should” write about, and I love making ambitious publication schedules for them. But then, come production time, I've either procrastinated, or dutifully typed something out that might have turned out fine, but not exciting and authentic.

The stuff I’m most proud of, and usually the stuff that has resonated the most with others, has been born out of passion and chaos. I might sit down to write a pre-planned essay, but get bored and tongue-tied. Instead, I start writing about something else, something that feels urgent and emotional. I write it fast and messy. And the resulting piece, after a bit of editing, is often way more compelling than the pre-planned stuff. It has a heart beat.

What if we are actually way wilder and weirder than we give ourselves credit for? What if we've simply been keeping ourselves on such a tight leash, that this wild creativity has never had a chance to surface? And what if we could unleash it by unleashing ourselves, so to speak. Releasing our need to plan and control what we create. Letting go of our need to judge everything that comes out. Being fine with sucking, making a mess, making a fool out of ourselves.

We can always polish it later. But if we never let ourselves loose, we won’t have anything exciting to polish. And just because one way of writing might seem more “optimal”, or has worked well for others, doesn't mean it's the most optimal way for us. What if the most optimal way to create is the way that gets us creating most often, with the most ease, excitement and honesty?

I'm growing tired of being in control. Of trying so damn hard. Of boring myself with my need for perfection. Of not getting my ideas out into the world.

If you, like me, would like your writing to feel more like abstract painting, and less like bookkeeping or chess playing — here are my tips…

How to write like an abstract painter

• Decide on a time of day or week when you’ll sit down to write. No matter how uninspired you happen to feel that day.

• Show up to your writing with absolutely zero expectations. Be fully prepared to write total crap and make a mess. In fact, be intent on it. Look forward to it.

• Remember that you are not wasting time. Wasting time is lying in bed scrolling Instagram for an hour, or reading the news, or arguing with idiots on Twitter. Making bad art and writing crappy stories is never a waste of time, it's a crucial part of the process. When you are sitting there, struggling and hating every word that comes out of you, you are in fact making tremendous progress, even though it doesn't feel that way.

• Whatever you do, don’t compare yourself to other writers. You have no idea of the amount of revisions and outside input that have gone into their finished result. As the famous saying goes: "Don't compare your first draft to someones else's finished product." Chances are, their first draft was just as shitty as yours in the beginning.

• If you're writing essays or articles or blog posts: don’t validate your ideas by reading everything similar in sight. Dare to go in blind, to have a mind of your own, to reach your own conclusions. You can check facts and add in other perspectives later.

• Practice releasing control. If you write non-fiction: Follow every trail of thought. Go off on tangents. Be angry, be vulnerable, tell bad jokes, tell a secret, whine like a baby. Continue until you feel empty.

  If you write fiction: Be like a toddler in daycare. Stumble around and play with everything that looks interesting. Jump between scenes. Explore different ways the story could go. Write scenes you know you won’t keep. Let something absurd happen to your characters. Include more sounds, scents and sensations in your writing. Paint with the whole emotional color palette.

And then stand back and pat yourself on the back. You did the work. You had fun (hopefully.) The result might embarrass you, surprise you, or maybe even delight you. But that is beside the point. Because now you can take this lump of beautiful crap and mold it into whatever you want. And then you can make more crap. Because making crap is FUN. Much more fun than squeezing perfection out, one excruciating word or brushstroke at a time.

(I really recommend painting abstracts by the way. I've even made a course about it to get your started properly.)