On Writing

I’ve done so much research and digging into what it takes to become a successful author. Whether it be blogging, journalism, novels, memoirs, what have you, I’ve read extensively about it. And I still have no clue what I’m doing or how to do it. Obviously, this is a major procrastination tactic from doing the actual writing. What if I’m shit? What if it never goes anywhere and I write countless novels that are left unpublished??

My brain is a fantastic critic.

The thing that gets me about “being a successful author,” is just how many ways people claim to do that. What’s popular, or most likely to get engagement is very rarely the fun stuff. You can write copy til you’re blue in the face, make decent money, sure, but....does anyone dream of being a copywriter? Not to dock copywriters, I’m quite impressed by them actually. It just seems very much like a means to an end. Take the freelance copy jobs to pay the bills while you work on your years long masterpiece. I keep telling myself to do this, but it turns out I’m still stuck in that, “I can’t write what I’m not passionate about” phase.

I’ve been having this dilemma for the last ...oh, I don’t know....maybe a decade? The dilemma of whether or not I should just grow up and do the sucky job and pursue my dreams on the side. And yet, every part of me screams when I attempt to do so. My brain goes on strike, telling me it’s not gonna do a damn thing it doesn’t want to do. It feels childish.

But writing. The power of writing. The beauty, and pain, and inexplicable pleasure of writing. It’s beyond me. Something I feel many people — those who don’t necessarily have a connection with writing or reading specifically— don’t get, is how much of oneself goes into the work. With each word, there is a little bit of me along with it. It doesn’t matter the style or subject. We pour ourselves out onto pages or screens in little letters our brains recognize as cohesive patterns of language. Our emotions, our health, our minds, all sprinkled across the page to be exposed for all who read. Even in works that are devoid of feeling, there is feeling. If you read closely enough, you can learn so much of the person’s heart and character; their passions and desires, fears and triggers. Anger. You can feel it. Sometimes, even when you’re not supposed to. I can’t count how many times I set out to write an unbiased article with the intention of simply providing information, and despite the facts being just that, straight forward, those who read close enough sensed the rage or devastation those facts evoke in me.

Writing is something that can be done in so many ways, by so many people. Sure, it takes skill and a little bit of talent to be considered a “good” writer, but it can also be boiled down to a basic function. It’s the heart of the writer that makes the difference. Not the difference of being a good or bad writer — many passionate writers are terrible. But they’re writers nonetheless.

It occurred to me the other day just how much of myself I put into my work. Why it’s exhausting and exhilarating. It happened when my heart was shattered by unsolicited editing. Asking for some I love to read a poem of all things, and let me know their opinion. They sent it back CHANGED. Within the first stanza, a string of someone else’s words stared back at me with vicious teeth. “Your words weren’t good enough” they said, “We are better words, smarter words, stronger words,” they said. “You wrote our lesser, pathetic cousins of drivel, and we snuffed them out and took their place,” they said. Those words aimed to kill. And they almost succeeded.

Before I had time to express physical signs of emotion I ran upstairs to let the steam clear from my skin before discussing this devastation. The reader had no intent to harm me. No intent to cause me any pain or anger. Yet here it was, rising in my cheeks like a tidal wave. And before I had finished sizzling out, they followed me with a need to know the reasoning behind my clearly emotion driven action.

I would not consider myself a tender person under most circumstances, however, this piece was particularly sensitive, and poetry to me is my deepest emotional outlet. The words I often spatter into poems are anchored to the depths of my soul. Writing them down keeps me grounded, and my anchor had just been chained off with something much heavier. The weight of a few altered sentences brought me sinking to my knees with astounding speed. At the same time, I felt as though my anchor had been completely removed and suddenly I was choking on my rising heart. It seems an exaggerated response, disproportionate to what had happened, I know. My only defense lies in that piece being one of the first pieces of poetry I had let anyone lay eyes on since middle or high school.

I asked for an honest opinion. For suggestions on where and how to improve. And had I gotten those things I would likely have applied them as I saw fit and received them gracefully. But to see a wholly different poem come back to me was outside the realm of acceptability within my mind. Someone else trying to speak my heart without asking anything about it first. This is a person who knows my heart, and yet it seemed so cruel, so inexplicably painful. Maybe if it had been another piece of work, on another topic, in a different format, those few word changes would at most have brought mild annoyance. But this felt violent. Though not at all by the readers intent or knowledge. I feel it incredibly important to emphasize that.

Because the point I’m likely failing to drive home, is all that a writer is or can be. All that writing means to the writer. We hope it comes to mean as much to the reader, but cannot help but leave little droplets of our souls in the ink. Writing can be a powerful tool. It can be weaponized, or used for love and creation. Either way, when you read something, think of who’s behind those words. Remember their humanity, and be kind and constructive.

**I have been struggling to find motivation to get back into writing after months of avoidance. Any support will be greatly appreciated**