On the difficulty of writing with intention and the curse of being a bilingual perfectionist

The moment I set out to write something for which I’ve created a structure and a purpose, it immediately escapes me. In this case it was only a silly blog post about going to a stationary shop with a friend.

The moment there’s an intention, writing becomes harder, the idea becomes elusive and I can’t seem to set it on paper even if I already know where it’s going. It’s like getting in a car for a roadtrip, bags packed, snacks on the passenger seat, but I just sit there, unable to turn the ignition.

Is this what executive dysfunction feels like? Is it, perhaps, a symptom of perfectionism? I set out to write the first post for this blog and once aware of the text’s intended purpose I become unable to craft it. Is it because I know it will never get to be as poignant as it is in my head? How do I achieve anything if that's the case? Though I’ve never considered myself a perfectionist, I recognize I have high expectations for myself and what I create. Is it fear, then? Always gestating, always unable to give birth to an idea because I fear I won’t be able to give it the life it deserves? Afraid of not having that ephemeral it, which we think we must have in order to create, to be creative?

Or is it the language thing? English always feels more natural to produce in, to use for my own self expression. And my native Spanish, though beautiful and rich in ways English isn’t, always remains inaccessible to me. This year particularly has been a time in which I try again and again to use Spanish, to write in it, to read in it, to enjoy it. But it’s a process at which I sometimes fail stupendously.

At the café where we sit, I tell Andrea this and she nods. English feels more natural to her as well, she says that writing in her native Hungarian always feels false somehow, distant. I’m glad I’m not alone in this. She also reassures me when I show her the three pages I wrote in the diary about being unable to write the blog post. 

“That’s the post,” she says, looking over the pages and smiling a big, bright smile. I choose to listen to her. She seems to know what she’s doing most of the time. 

And about writing with intention: I think my only solution, whichever the underlying issue may be, is this very medium. The blog, the exposure therapy it provides and that I am seeking. Whatever language the post decides to live in, that’s the language it will be posted in. And nothing will be perfect, nothing can be perfect. My own diary, the first I’ve ever been able to keep, was supposed to be started on the first of January. I wrote the first entry on the seventh, something about owning cats and something about motherhood. I’ll save that for another entry.