It’s 103 degrees outside. I’m sitting inside, under the cool breeze of humanity’s greatest invention to date: air conditioning. What else can I tell you? I’m in a small European cafe in Houston’s Rice Village. It’s unassuming and quaint — decorated like a Spanish villa. There are Pothos plants draping the walls and giant Monstera leaves surrounding mahogany wine racks. French jazz is playing softly beneath the white noise of a dozen conversations happening at once. I catch a word or two every now and then, but it’s mostly indecipherable noise that sort of undulates like leaves rustling in the wind, or waves slowly crashing on a beach. It’s strangely rhythmic. Outside, beyond the antique chandeliers and cottage windows, there’s a patio with more tables that reminds me of Las Ramblas in Barcelona — except nobody here dares sit outside. Too hot.
It’s Saturday. I have nothing else to do but sit here and write. The scene around me is calm, even picturesque. Life is unfolding slowly as I sit in front of my computer, type, and sip on an iced coffee. But in my mind, what I am doing is anything but calm. Something is off, and it has been for a while. Rewind to last Saturday. I was doing the exact same thing, albeit in a different coffee shop. There were no words on my page then.
I always describe writing as wrestling with words. It’s a battle. And over the last few weeks, it’s become even more of a fight. Or maybe, a hunt is a better way to describe it. The words are as elusive as ever. And to put it simply, I’ve lost my voice — my writing voice, that is. I’m searching for it again, but it’s goddamn exhausting. I’d be less tired if I were literally digging for it with a shovel.
Excuse the long intro. You probably don’t need to know where I’m sitting or how hot it is outside. But I just wanted to put words on the page. I just wanted to remind myself how it feels to unfold on paper. I’ve been in a writing rut to say the least, so simply pouring words onto this canvas feels nice — even if I’m just Jackson Pollocking the shit out of it. I have a point somewhere in here so just stay with me.
I’ve had a hard time writing for many reasons. To be fair to myself, my life has changed a lot this year. I lost my grandfather. I got married. I started a new job. My wife and I are about to move into a new place. All of these events have had their own abundance of beauty, but at the same time things have been off balance, and I’ve definitely come untethered a bit. This storm of emotions will pass, no doubt. Still, it’s not surprising that I am having a hard time putting pen to paper. And on top of that, I’ve been thinking a lot about my writing lately. More specifically, I’ve been thinking about what I want to say.
I started this Substack earlier this year because I knew I wanted to share my ideas with you — and also explore them myself. I set a goal to write every week and figured the best way to start was to narrow my focus to a specific topic. As a former athlete, writing about sports and performance seemed the most natural. So I started writing stories every week about what I’ve learned over the last two decades of physical training and performing.
On the one hand, I promised myself I’d do my best to write from the heart. But on the other hand, I selfishly — and perhaps foolishly — wanted this Substack to grow and spread like wildfire. Though I never admitted it to myself, subconciously, I wanted to be the next James Clear. Of course, in pursuit of the latter, I started to lose my true voice. I often felt myself being pulled toward heavier topics and then backtracking because I was afraid I would stray too far from this theme that I had ascribed to my writing.
When my grandfather passed away, I said “fuck it” and wrote about death and poetry and longing. Before my wedding, I wrote about photography and documenting my life for my future children. When I re-read those articles, I feel as if I am reading the closest thing to my true voice. Of course, a lot of my writing ties into physical training and movement. I have a hard time separating my spiritual growth from physical training. They are usually one in the same, or at least complimentary. Movement, like writing and creating, is how I express myself, so it will always be a topic I want to talk about. But what I am trying to say is, I don’t want to limit my writing to any specific theme, or shy away from writing about whatever I feel like.
Here’s the advice I would give to myself when I was first starting this Substack:
Sure, man. Start specific. That’s always an easy way to build momentum and find things to write about. If you want to write about sports and movement and performance, then go for it. But remember: In your writing life, you are an infant. You have only just started. Do not limit yourself. Appreciate the fact that you are a nobody and experiment. Find your style by finding what is not your style. Just write. But for the love of God, do not try to be anybody else. There is a place somewhere deep in your soul, where all the joy and all the sorrow and all the love you have ever endured is stored. Only you have the key to this workshop that no one else can see. Share your work when you are ready, but always — ALWAYS — write from this deep place within you. That is the only place where you will find the words that you are looking for.
The truth is, I can’t find my true voice because I don’t have one yet — and maybe I never will. Nonetheless, I’m not going to limit myself anymore. Now is the time to create without limits, or boundaries, or insecurities.
So here I am, in a small cafe in Houston — as the world outside melts away. The Pothos leaves are dancing on the wall with the breeze from the spinning fans. The place is nearly empty now. The undulating white noise of conversation has all but faded. I can feel sweat forming on my brow. It’s hard work — all this digging and searching. But I know that I am almost there. I am almost back to that deep place within me. I am almost back in this workshop that no one else can see.
It’s been too long.
Hi Chris! Keep writing! You have a gift. And writing about where you are in the specific place helps us, the readers, join in your emotion as well as your observations
BTW, Mila told me about your wedding and which Chris you are--"Not my daddy Kris, the other one."