Writing a Ship of Theseus

I’m going to write of personal growth and philosophy. Through it, I will become more aware of myself and my surroundings. I will understand how I used to love something and learned to fear it. I will explore myself and humanity to better comprehend the concepts of capitalism, gender, neurodivergence, religion, science vs art, perfection, fear leading to failure and existential crisis, norm vs personal exception (and exceptionalism), memory and retention, childhood and adulthood, media, twin motivations of fear and excitement.

I used to write for myself but now the concept of writing being a leisure activity is a bizarre notion. I have grown so accustomed to everything written being public and scrutinized. Being an academic made my writing my evaluation metric. I felt like I couldn’t have any privacy. Even as I write this I cannot help but wonder what editing would look like. What would proofreading and evaluation do to me? Thinking that I’ll be judged for not having perfection. I have to try really hard to suppress that voice. The fear is unfounded. Writing literally is editing and everyone knows that. Why is that aspect of the labor of writing so frightening to me? Perhaps it is the fear of perpetuity. The idea that, unless it is done perfectly the first time, it will be eternal and excruciating. Even writing that word, excruciating, felt wrong. If I spelled it incorrectly I’d have to edit it later and if I need to fix that then what else is wrong?

Maggie if you edit this in the future be gentle to yourself. (Typing Maggie is smiling at writing Maggie right now.) And editing Maggie is humbled. And posting Maggie is satisfied.

Perhaps I’m just worried about how much time one has to put into an effort before it becomes valuable or correct? How much do I need to do before I re-read or edit or ask for external eyes (god forbid)?

I feel like my writing is the Ship of Theseus. If the original draft is not what makes it to the “final version” then am I not perverting and bastardizing and plagiarizing? Would not each edit take me away from truth and authenticity? From the pure stream of consciousness? Would my ship be a different ship if I looked at it later? If I made changes? If I made those changes from an external observer’s suggestions? To even transcribe my thoughts is rushed and stilted, my hand meting out a ship on paper that is slower, more deliberate and less frantic than the swirling amoebic ship in my mind. To think of typing this up at some future date? Creating a digital facsimile of my ship feels artificial.

But how do I grow? Clearly, now, the mental ship needs form else I wouldn’t feel compelled to write. How can I write my ship while simultaneously needing to craft her with private and sacred pen strokes, knowing that for true growth my craft will need to be seen and poked and groped? I’ll just attach a photocopy of this with my typed up copy. A message from a past ship, a record unto honesty and integrity, to personal growth and to remind the shipwright that the vessel is the same. The ship is still yours, because you will still be Theseus when you use spell check.