6 June 2012
I’m skyping with one of my best friends, Kate, and we’re
talking about my blog. The blog that is
going to get me rich and famous. Kate,
who has been a writer her entire career – master’s thesis, doctoral dissertation,
radio documentaries and accompanying books and web pages – says, “Have you
thought about taking a writing class?” I wince as a pinprick hole opens in that thin membraned
little reservoir that houses self-confidence (I believe it is located near the
gallbladder). Even as my nose stings, and my eyes ever so
slightly tear up, I know I am over-reacting, so I say nothing. Secretly and furiously I try to use grown-up
rationality self-talk to repair the hole.
Like that ever works.
So we continue along.
Then, very reasonably, not knowing I am fragile because I stupidly don’t
tell her so, she says, “Caroline, you
need to find someone to edit your writing.”
Okay, yes, that makes sense. Of
course. And then she adds, “Even real
writers use editors.” At this point, a
full-on tear opens up in this delicate little self-confidence balloon. The force of the release whooshes it completely
out of my body. I watch it go zigzag
skittering across the floor and come to a stop in the corner, small, deflated, emptied.
As I get ready for bed that evening, I am feeling really,
really discouraged, and vow to do nothing but work on my CV the next day, leave
this silly writing behind, buckle down and find real work. However, as real as those feelings are, I notice
that I also already am composing a blog in my head, trying to capture the
essence of how I experienced the conversation.
I can’t seem to help it.
7 June 2012
Today I am trying to figure out why my reaction was so out
of proportion to Kate’s very good and reasonable suggestions. Did I really think that I came to writing so
naturally that I was beyond a writing course?
Did I really think that I was a good enough writer that my work doesn’t
need editing? I’m ducking my head in
shame and averting my eyes now because I’m going to admit something very
embarrassing. Please don’t look at me
when I tell you this. Yes, maybe, a
little.
So, the best I can come up with now is that it is all part
of the growing process. Up until this
point, I have drunk in all the encouraging and supportive comments which have
come my way and nurtured my belief in myself.
I am grateful for those because as a writer still in the baby stage
anything else might well have snuffed out my nascent efforts.
But now that I am putting out there that I really want to do
this, not just as a fun little past-time, but as something I am going to pursue
more seriously I think I’ve entered a whole other ballgame. I think the ballgame is the one where I have
to say, “Please tell me how my writing sucks.
And I’d be most grateful for any suggestions of how I can make it
unsucky.”
I also truly believe that in my journey there will be
turning point moments, or leap forward moments, when someone says something
that stings, that is hard to take in, but that is exactly what I need to hear. I am 100% sure that this conversation with
Kate is one of those moments. Thanking
you in advance, Kate, for the fruit that conversation will bear.
