INFJ Writer Problem № 3: We're afraid we have nothing to say

A few things that trip us up about writing

Note: INFJ 101 resources available here.

I’ve been asking myself a lot lately, specifically since starting this club and newsletter, what is it that trips us up about writing?

I’ve been reading Theft by Finding by David Sedaris. I can’t tell you the last time I flew through a book so quickly. I’ll start reading around 7 and look up and it’s 9:45, when it feels like it’s maybe been a half hour.

It’s just diary entries from 1977 to 2002. It doesn’t feel voyeuristic or salacious (although some might disagree with me). He’s just sharing day-to-day happenings of his life. A lot of the time he only uses people’s first initials when referencing them, and even the ones he does mention by name are meaningless to the reader, because we don’t know who they are, and he might only mention them once.

So I don’t know 95% of the people in a collection of entirely ordinary stories, where nothing spectacular happens, and yet I don’t want to put it down.

Now to be clear (before I get to this next part, which might sound like I’m insulting his work), I love David Sedaris. He’s one of my favorite writers, and I’m thoroughly enjoying this book, but given that writing is almost always on my mind, here are some of the thoughts that keep crossing my mind as I’m reading his diaries:

1.) You and I could 100% write as he writes.

Especially in the early years, say ‘77 to ‘87.

David Sedaris 1977 is entirely achievable to you and me.

Which means David Sedaris 2024 is achievable to us, too, because …

2.) All he did was keep up with his writing.

That’s the only thing (writing-wise) that sets him apart from every other wannabe writer—HE ACTUALLY WRITES. Every day. And he’s written every day since at least 1977.¹

And the reason he had something to write about every day is because …

3.) He noticed things.

He paid attention.

Then he wrote down what he observed.

There was nothing special about the things he observed, certainly nothing unavailable to you and me. The geography may be different, but that’s about all.

So we could do the same. But we don’t. Why? Because we think what we have to say isn’t all that interesting, that our lives aren’t all that interesting. Objectively, however, we could argue that with the vignettes of David’s life in Theft by Finding, yet I’m finding it hard to put down.

And the thing is, the stories he shares aren’t outrageous or unbelievable. Recounting it secondhand, they might even sound boring. A lot of times he’s talking about his experiences at IHOP, being bullied and harassed by troublemakers on the streets of Chicago, doing drugs, people bumming cigarettes off him constantly, and his crappy apartment (at least in the early years).

Most of these things you and I might see as embarrassing details of our unsuccessful years, things we don’t want to remember, let alone retell, but those kinds of stories have made up 99% of the book so far. They’re the exact stories David’s sharing of his life.

Granted, Theft by Finding was published in 2017, long after he’d found success, but even that fact doesn’t matter, because …

4.) Things get better with attention and time.

As the book goes, his writing, life, and circumstances all improve.

That’s how it works. Practice makes things better.

But in the beginning, you wouldn’t have thought, “This guy’s a writer.” He kept a diary, that’s all (at least to an unknowing reader). Early in the book, I don’t recall him even mentioning his aspirations to write, so if you hadn’t heard of him prior to picking up the book, you’d think he was just documenting his days. He journaled. As an outsider, that’s all you’d think (that and how his life didn’t seem to be going anywhere²).

Now? He’s a famous and successful writer who lives in London.

But he started exactly where we’re starting, writing in a way we’re capable of writing. What mattered was that he stuck with it, and as he did, his writing improved.

And here’s another thing I keep thinking …

5.) He’s the same and different.

David seemed to be living a vastly different life in his early years, especially from what I’ve seen of him since I started reading his work (which probably started ten or twelve years ago with Let’s Explore Diabetes With Owls).

He was different all those years ago, and yet he was the same. More sophisticated now maybe. Certainly better off financially. But you can see that it’s still him under that life all the way back in 1977. He and his talent as a writer have evolved, for sure, and he’s a different person now, but you can still recognize him in his early years, just a more raw, less refined version of him (and his writing).

Yet somehow, just by writing consistently about his everyday, boring, fascinating life, he’s become successful at both. Saying it that way strikes me as obvious. So how is it that we fail to maintain that consistency or to even tell (or want to tell³) those stories and seemingly trivial details about our own lives, when in reality, our lives are no less and no more interesting than his?⁴

^{6.) Fourteen years in and he’s not all that far.}

As I’ve made my way through the book, I’ve paid attention to the year things are happening, how his life is different (or not), and how his writing has improved, and at about the fourteen-year mark (not counting any writing earlier than ‘77), it occurs to me: It took a long time before David found success. A loooong time.

So why don’t we expect that for ourselves, too? Why shouldn’t we, if it took David Sedaris that long?

Because as an INFJ, our default is to live in the possibility, the ideal, and we expect that ideal yesterday.

So waiting an exorbitant (or even normal) amount of time for success goes against the grain for us.⁵ “Talk today, done tomorrow” is how we do, but that’s not how outcomes and results tend to do—they arrive when they want. But that doesn’t mean our expectations budge one bit.

And that’s what trips us up about writing.

1. Not knowing where to begin. But it’s the obvious point, right where we are and with what’s right in front of us.

2. Not writing consistently. That one’s simple, too.⁶ We just have to write. Every day and anyway.

3. Not paying attention. The solution? Make notes of little anecdotes you want to remember later and put to paper. David carries around a small notebook everywhere he goes and makes notes of things he wants to write about later.

4. Not trusting the process (and not wanting to be “bad” at first). This goes against the INFJ grain, too, as staunch perfectionists, but if we want the thing (to be good and successful writers), we have to be willing to suck for a while (or at least to be bland).

5. And, perhaps most importantly, not thinking our lives are all that interesting, and being too guarded to share them anyway. We wonder why our stories matter, who in the world would want to hear them, and how they could possibly have any relevance when we can’t even see that for ourselves.⁷ But here’s what I’ve noticed, too: In the early years, David’s story was as ordinary as yours or mine, and I’m enjoying hearing about it. So the solution might be to act as if your story matters, even if only to you, because it should matter to you. And if it doesn’t or you think it’s not interesting, then figure out ways to make it interesting.⁸ And if, after all that, you still feel like it’ll matter to no one else, then perfect. INFJs don’t like attention anyway. So you can just write for yourself, and maybe someday you’ll be more open to sharing it, and when you do, maybe somebody will enjoy hearing about it as much as I’m enjoying hearing about David’s story.

Because here’s something else I’ve noticed, David didn’t seem to question himself. He just liked to write, so he wrote. At the end of all our efforts to distract and avoid, it really seems as simple as that. Somehow, though, we convince ourselves that all the wrangling is easier.

Until the next wrangling session!

the INFJ writers club at Maison d’Evangeline

1. I’m sure there are days when he doesn’t write, when he’s sick, on holiday, or whatever, but the point is, he’s consistent.

2. At least in the beginning. I love David Sedaris, but he seemed a hot mess back in the day!

3. Being an INFJ further complicates this fact by the other fact that we don’t like to share too much about ourselves until we’re super close with someone (and the people we let close are few and far between for INFJs).

4. Especially in the early days, because a lot of the experiences he’s had in his successful years have come as a result of that success, so the same would be true for you and me in that case, too.

5. That Charlie Munger phrase has come in handy for checking my INFJ self a lot over the last few weeks: “To get what you want, deserve what you want.”

6. Although we’ll find the most complicated ways to avoid the simplest of things!

7. Amplifying this for INFJs, we also feel invisible already, or that we somehow don’t count as much as those around us. That’s partly because we make ourselves small, keep everything close to the vest, and share very little of ourselves (with an even smaller number of people), and it’s partly because a lot of the people around us actually treat us like we’re invisible and don’t matter. So this serves as the perfect confirmation bias when questioning our stories’ relevance.

8. Without resorting to killing someone or becoming the next D.B. Cooper.