Recently I wrote a writer friend an email saying that I admired her because she was willing to let others read her work, to "put herself out there" so to speak. "That's how you grow as a writer," I told to her.
Then two days later, in a fit of tearful frustration, I moaned to my husband, "I'm tired of putting myself out there. I can't do it anymore."
Perhaps I should be listening to my own advice.
If my emotions are any indication of other writers, we run hot or cold at the snap of a finger.
One hour I'm feeling pretty good about my writing, like I'm qualified to give others advice and happy to keep pursuing the dream of getting published.
Then something simple (an email from my agent in this case) leaves me questioning why I'm even bothering with this hopeless pursuit. I should just keep my writing to myself. No one else cares about my stories the way I do anyway.
While thoughts of being a "closet writer" might console me for a while, the simple truth is that I wouldn't have grown in my craft if I didn't "put myself out there."
Five years ago when I started to write seriously, I didn't have a writing style of my own and fell into the faux pas that many newby writers make (telling instead of showing, copying my favorite author's style, not utilizing the five senses to describe a scene, etc.).
It was the critique of a trusted friend and my literary agent that molded me into a much, much better writer.
So, as much as I dislike the vulnerable, exposed feeling of "putting myself out there," I will keep doing it because I never want to stop growing as a writer.
Then two days later, in a fit of tearful frustration, I moaned to my husband, "I'm tired of putting myself out there. I can't do it anymore."
Perhaps I should be listening to my own advice.
If my emotions are any indication of other writers, we run hot or cold at the snap of a finger.
One hour I'm feeling pretty good about my writing, like I'm qualified to give others advice and happy to keep pursuing the dream of getting published.
Then something simple (an email from my agent in this case) leaves me questioning why I'm even bothering with this hopeless pursuit. I should just keep my writing to myself. No one else cares about my stories the way I do anyway.
While thoughts of being a "closet writer" might console me for a while, the simple truth is that I wouldn't have grown in my craft if I didn't "put myself out there."
Five years ago when I started to write seriously, I didn't have a writing style of my own and fell into the faux pas that many newby writers make (telling instead of showing, copying my favorite author's style, not utilizing the five senses to describe a scene, etc.).
It was the critique of a trusted friend and my literary agent that molded me into a much, much better writer.
So, as much as I dislike the vulnerable, exposed feeling of "putting myself out there," I will keep doing it because I never want to stop growing as a writer.
It should be noted that my agent did not intend to send me on an I-suck-as-a-writer spiral with her email. As a woman and a writer, I frequently add my own interpretation to other people's words.
My husband is actively working to cure me of this hereditary disease.
My husband is actively working to cure me of this hereditary disease.
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