August | 2012 | the artist's nest

A few days ago while logging in my daily progress for Jenna Avery’s Just Do the Writing Accountability Circle, I had one of those light-bulb moments where I got something, not just intellectually but viscerally.

One of the questions we group members respond to daily asks us what negative thoughts we noticed that came up around our writing. Time and time again, I find myself writing some variation of this: “My writing isn’t exciting or important enough. It’s not active enough. There’s not enough drama. No one will find it interesting.”

I’ve examined these thoughts for quite a while now. Are they true? Yes, sometimes my writing lacks drama. Sometimes it could be more active. But all the time? No, these things are not always true. As for “it’s not exciting or important enough” and “no one will find it interesting,” well, that’s all subjective. I’ve certainly gotten enough feedback on my writing by this point in my life to know that quite a few people have found it interesting. And, as any writer knows, the most important thing when it comes to writing is that you, the writer, are fascinated by what you’re writing.

But this particular day as I logged in these thoughts once again, cringing at their familiarity, I got it. BUSTED! I said out loud, practically snorting my iced coffee.

These thoughts about my writing are my particular form of resistance.

Here’s how I know this: There have been days when I’ve known, without a doubt, that what I’ve written has been exciting and dramatic. To me, anyway. My whole body felt engaged as I wrote; I could hardly tear myself away from the page. These days don’t happen all that often. When they do, they’re wonderful, but that doesn’t usually completely quiet my inner critic.

On these days, when I logged in my progress, what negative thoughts had I noticed? “This writing isn’t serious enough; it’s too active; it should be quieter and deeper; it moves too quickly.”

Yep, when my inner critic knew it couldn’t convince me the writing wasn’t exciting or active, it just went ahead and criticized the writing for not being other things.

Here’s what I realized: My inner critic just wants to protect me from putting my writing out there for scrutiny. So it dredges up anything it can find “wrong” about the writing that I just might believe. When it knows I won’t buy into the idea that the writing isn’t exciting or active enough, it criticizes the writing for having these very qualities.

My inner critic wants to convince me that unless I’m sure my writing is all things to all people, I shouldn’t put it out there — it’s not good enough yet, it’s not ready. And it’s a lose-lose proposition, a double bind. It’s like not showing up to the party unless you’re sure you can be every kind of guest. Since you know you can’t be, you don’t show up at all.

So I’ve finally gotten it: “Not exciting and active enough, not important enough” or any variations thereof, are my “usual suspects” when it comes to my writing. They’re my go-to thoughts that exist solely to keep me from having faith in my own stories, from investing them with enough importance to go all the way with them, to truly own them.

Noticing these thoughts — my usual suspects — allows me to round them up, corral and question them. In fact, I’m getting so used to them I don’t even always have to question them anymore. I just notice them and say, ah, there you are again.

One time when I was in grad school, a well-known writer visited one of my writing classes and was asked her best advice for writers. “Know what kind of writer you are,” she said. She said she loved Dickens, but she was never going to write like him.

And I’m probably never going to write action-packed thrillers that pump you full of adrenaline. It’s not the kind of writer I am. Luckily, I don’t have to be every type of writer. Knowing that — finally getting it at a deep level — frees me up to trust in the writing that is mine and mine alone.

Do you need support in creating a daily writing habit? Tomorrow, Aug. 30, is the last day to sign up for the next session of Jenna Avery’s Just Do the Writing Accountability Circle. I’ve been a member of this group for going on a year, and I’m also Jenna’s co-coach. It’s a tremendously powerful way to become aware of what keeps you from writing, and to get group support while you do it. Check it out here!

Image is ANTIQUE BLACK TYPEWRITER PAINTED WITH LIGHT
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Sometimes, when you’re in a place of confusion and feeling really vulnerable about it, someone else steps in and seems to think they know exactly what’s going on for you. And they label what’s happening for you and because you’re not sure what’s up for you, you start to think, maybe they’re right.

Many years ago, when I’d left college and I was in a total “liminal period”, as Martha Beck would call it, I started seeing a psychotherapist who really liked to label my behavior as “healthy” or “unhealthy”. This produced a pretty strong “ick” in the pit of my stomach (a sure sign that her way of working wasn’t right for my essential self), but back then I had a longstanding habit of ignoring my body and its messages.

So for six sessions, I saw this therapist and kept hoping she’d see me. I thought if I just explained myself well enough, she’d “get me.” I remember sitting in her big black pleather chair, telling her that memories from a particular period of my life had been flooding my thoughts, and they felt vivid and compelling. It felt like there was a message for me in those memories, I told her, and I wanted to be open to it.

She stared at me flatly and said, “You’re focusing on the past so you don’t have to move forward. You’re procrastinating.”

I wondered if she was right. I mean, it sounded right. But it didn’t feel right.

What I know now, years later, is that for me, moving forward often looks like going back — temporarily. Frequently, before I arrive at my next stop, I need to backtrack a little and gather, process, and integrate what happened “back there.” Maybe I’ve frozen certain emotions that need to be brought up, or maybe so much happened in such a short period of time that I haven’t yet caught up with myself.

I’ve written previously about the importance of trusting your own, unique process. If your process looks like mine at all, and you’re feeling like it’s messy and confusing and you’re pretty raw about it right now, don’t let anyone else tell you you’re “not moving forward.” Trust me: You are moving forward. You’re just doing it in your own circular, zig-zag way. It’s all good.

Your true supporters on your journey will honor, support (and even be enchanted by!) your process, your way of working through and coming out on the other side.

That’s why, a year or so after I stopped seeing the aformentioned therapist, I found an amazing therapist who deeply honored my process. And because she honored my process, I learned to honor it myself. And I came to trust myself. Fiercely.

Your true supporters may not “get you” one hundred percent, but they have faith that you know what’s best for you, and they remind you that you are on your own side. They know, as Rainer Maria Rilke said, that “what goes on in your innermost being is worthy of your whole love.”

But the most important thing, of course, is that you know this.