How Mister Rogers Helped My Writing Process in an Unexpected Way

You’ve got to do it. Every little bit.

Photo by Willie Fineberg on Unsplash

Yesterday was World Kindness Day.

I was born in 1983.

In Pittsburgh.

For all of these reasons, I was genetically predisposed to spend at least a portion of yesterday watching old YouTube clips from Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood and sobbing like a baby.

So I did.

There was one clip I searched for specifically because the lesson within has been turned into a meme I’ve seen in many creative circles. In this clip, Mr. Rogers draws a house. As he’s drawing he says, “I’m not very good at it. But it doesn’t matter. It’s just the fun of doing it that’s important.”

The takeaway, of course, is that one should create for the sheer joy of creation. Because, as Mr. Rogers says at the end of the clip, making stuff makes you feel good.

I struggle with this notion of writing for the sheer joy of writing. As a beginner with a lot to learn, I find myself relating more closely to the oft cited quote:

I hate writing. I love having written.
— Dorothy Parker

I agree with Mr. Rogers. Making certain stuff makes me feel good. I love coloring, doodling, puzzling, crafting with my kids, organizing my garage (yeah, I said it.) When I’m working on my novel, however, I mostly feel better after I’ve made it through a tough paragraph, scene or chapter, rather than when I’m actually writing it.

I search the Internet for solace, but I usually end up feeling like a wannabe. There’s so much out there about how the writing is supposed to be the reward. But I don’t feel like there’s a unicorn flying above my head, pooping rainbows and playing the harp, when I’m writing. Yes, my unicorns fly. I’m not here to argue about this.

Honestly, though? What does it actually mean to enjoy the literal act of writing? How would that feel? Does that mean the words should come with ease, grace and flow? Should I be smiling? Whistling a tune? Not banging my head off my desk?

I thought if anyone would be able to explain it to me, it would be Fred Rogers. That’s why I watched the clip of him drawing the house. The one that’s supposed to represent this whole notion of the fun being the reason for the doing. The one I’ve seen distilled as a meme dozens of times.

But Mister Rogers didn’t answer that question.

Instead, he said something so much more significant to my writer’s journey. A struggle that has been tickling the back of my brain for weeks. Something that touched me so deeply, no doubt, because it was packaged as a song meant for preschoolers. Aren’t we all big, hairy preschoolers at heart?

After Mr. Rogers drew the house, he talked about how he wouldn’t have the picture if he’d just been thinking about it. He had to get it out of his imagination and onto the paper. Then he set down his crayon and looked through the camera, directly into my soul, and sang:

You can wish or hope or contemplate, a thing you’d like to do

But until start to do it, you will never see it through

Cause the make believe pretending, just wont do it for you.

You’ve got to DO IT.

Every little bit.

Damn.

I can’t count how many times I’ve said either out loud or in my head, “I just need someone to help me.”

I need someone to read my pages. I need a book coach to steer me in the right direction. I need a critique group to stoke my motivation. I need an agent to tell me if my book idea is marketable before I waste five years writing it. I need an editor to help me figure out the best way to structure the story.

Time and time again I’ve been presented with evidence that this is type of thinking is not only pointless, but also destructive. No one really cares if I write this book. Expecting someone else to devote their time and attention to making sure I finish it is a waste of time. And yet I still find myself saying or thinking, if only…

Of course I can ask for help along the way, but expecting someone else to magically pull me out when I’m knee-deep in the drafting muck is not productive. This is my journey and my story, and the bottom line is that I will be happier and, hopefully, more productive when I accept the fact that my story will never, ever be finished unless I DO IT.

Every. Little. Bit.

Somewhere deep down inside I knew this was something that was holding me back. I just wasn’t able to articulate it.

Turns out all I needed was for Mister Rogers to sing it to me.