But there is an obstacle, as immaterial as its counterpart. There’s another force that haunts all people, all the time. It's almost undetectable, very hard to see. Pressfield calls it "Resistance". It's the force that tries to prevent us from fulfilling our mission. I'm sure this will be familiar to you, it certainly is to me.

Resistance fights against the divine. It’s an ally of abulia, depression and apathy. It’s a leech that feeds on suffering; it’s never satisfied and will never be. It has a colossal objective: to destroy love for life.

To me, Resistance feels like an endless list of priorities. Anything seems much more urgent than sitting down to write my ideas. There’s always something else to do, the time never seems right, my ideas have to wait to be written, they have to get in line. But what's strange is that when I get free time, I’m the one that goes out in search of something else. Leisure has to be avoided at all costs. Not even the idea of starting appears in my mind. And if it does, something inside me panics. Now’s the right time, inaudible voices whisper, if you don't do it now, you never will.

Then Resistance answers for me, without my noticing. It does so with my voice:

I have to watch that new anime that everyone is talking about.

I need cigarettes.

I have to go get a coffee with Miranda.

I have to get into a relationship.

I need to graduate.

You gain nothing from it, do something productive.

Something that makes money.

After reading Pressfield's book, I became more aware of its tricks. Bit by bit I began to hear its voice. A perverse imitation of my natural voice, that revealed more of its dirty nature the more attention I paid to its distorted resonance. Resistance went back to its hiding place. It has only one weakness, being found out.

I cleared my schedule (that was never that busy), closed my bedroom door, put on my headphones and rested my fingers on the laptop keys. Muses are capricious; sometimes they play pranks, sometimes they test you. They are spontaneous, they like their orders to be followed immediately. Sometimes they abandon me when I'm alone with a blank document, patiently waiting for some indication, however precarious it may be.

They don't listen to threats. They don't care about your need to acquire capital to feed yourself, or ask about the status of your rent or bills. They only know that they won't let you be happy until you do what they say. They’re a little despotic in that respect. How inconsiderate... don't you think? Why couldn't they call me for a more lucrative and stable activity, like programming. There are people who have programming, medicine or law as vocation, good for them. My luck is that of a hostile and difficult to secure world. The muses don’t promise anything material. They don’t promise success, fame or fortune.

Resistance can also take the form of overly strict self-criticism. This is especially pernicious, because we may think those are our own perfectionistic standards. That our sensitivity to mistakes is so high that nothing we do seems to satisfy us. Of course, these criticisms are limited to our work only. We can appreciate other people's works and ignore the imperfections, sometimes we don't even notice them. It's hard to perceive that the criticism is rarely directed to our art, and is almost always directed to ourselves. If that haughty voice only leaves a bitter aftertaste, without anything constructive, it’s the voice of Resistance.

Also you can’t argue with Resistance. No matter how much you argue with it, invariably you’ll lose. The only thing that can be done to weaken it is to listen to it attentively, knowing what it really is.

Resistance can also imitate (or reproduce) the voices of others. For example, an older brother:

"Cringe."

A father:

"Is that what you spend your time on?"

A friend:

*Laughter*

Or a negative comment on the internet:

"I hate Twilight Sparkle x Flash Sentry."

An artist with a severe and undiagnosed case of Resistance can truly lead a miserable life. Especially if the people around them don’t know anything about artistic calls, or if they are the involuntary spokespersons of their own Resistance.

"Nobody cares if you don't finish it."

"Nobody cares. Period."

Forgive me for being so hyperbolic.

It's hard to overcome the relentless urge to self-destruct when we see no reason to do so. It bleeds empty, boring hours, in which we are almost paralyzed on the bed, lazily sliding our fingertips across the phone screen. You have time, right? Art can wait. Checking twitter is more important. Our pride doesn’t allow us to abandon the idea that one day we will put in 100% of our effort, one day we’ll get tired of lying to ourselves and we will study, draw, write, exercise or sleep well. But that day never comes. That's why every birthday feels so miserable. If you get to work, the years that go by won't make you despair, I assure you.

Who can leap into the void, relying only on faith in oneself? A lunatic.

Who can leap into the void, relying on faith in oneself, and survive? Those that trust, I suppose.

And I don't mean that they trust that in the end, they’ll accomplish all their goals, that they’ll live out the fantasies of the future that were born in childhood. Fulfilling your mission doesn’t mean that. The muses don’t dictate fate or circumstances. Trusting them promises nothing but their company.

What I mean by all this is that art fulfills a function, one of the most selfish ones there is. It helps the artist to be happy. For some that means expressing their pain through art. Others express the love that fills their hearts, love for art or for life. My muse is honesty. When writing fiction or a letter like this, I'm being honest, and that is pure happiness.





Sincerely,

A lonely writer





P. S. This letter is addressed to you, reader, and it was inspired by a poet (who doesn't know me, but I do) that is facing an illness and keeps creating his art like a true warrior.