The most eye-opening session for me at the last writing conference I attended (Society for Children’s Writers and Book Illustrators in Nashville) wasn’t on the agenda. It happened in bed on the second morning before my alarm even went off.

I watched the pages of my manuscript transform into giant, delicate ashes falling from a steel gray sky like haunted snowflakes. This scene seemed so real that I almost reached out to touch one as it billowed down.

This nightmare plunged me into a sense of shocked dismay before my feet even hit the nubby hotel carpet.  I wanted to shrug it off, but I couldn’t. The hamster in my brain climbed in its wheel.

This had to mean something, right? My inner critic quickly supplied an interpretation, “You don’t stand a chance of getting published.”

I felt disoriented. I came to this conference with what I considered to be a completed manuscript, but after the excellent sessions led by Cheryl Klein and Beth Cozby, I felt my creative energy return. I hoped to review my work with fresh eyes. I envisioned following a revision checklist. Ahhh, checkmarks. Tiny addictive hits of my drug of choice: control and order.

I stared at the ceiling, the eerie image of my pages as ashes still fresh. I had to face it. Getting a first book published is a study in lack of control. While writing my draft, I tried to ignore the stories of unresponsive literary agents, the odds stacked against new writers breaking into print, publishing house staffing changes that resulted in purchased manuscripts sitting in limbo for years, to name just a few. And who hasn’t heard all the stories of how many times successful writers, such as J.K. Rowling, got rejections?

Now that I had completed a draft of my manuscript, those dusty tales I had pushed onto the back shelf of my mind had morphed into glossy, full-color coffee table books frequently drawing my attention away from revising my book.

Phrases popped into my head. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Abandon hope. How can I keep revising my 32,000-word middle grade novel without hope? That seemed ridiculously depressing. Oliver Burkeman, in his column for The Guardian, said it best: “Being against hope is like being in favor of pushing baby pandas off cliff tops.”

I first became acquainted with the Buddhist interpretation of hopelessness several years ago when I found a book with a title that would have worked well as the title for my life story at the time: When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chodron. She said that hopelessness is the beginning of real wisdom. I’ve long contemplated that the flip side of abandoning hope is embracing the present moment, perhaps being willing to sit courageously with those baby pandas at the cliff’s edge, breathing in their musky scent, caressing thick fur, noticing delicate whiskers, and the curve of toe pads, while knowing that they, along with me, can plunge off the cliff top at any time.

Perhaps abandoning hope as a writer simply means immersing myself in my current work, whether that is brainstorming a new idea, editing a chapter for the fortieth time, or querying an agent. When I cling to an outcome that I can’t control, I’ve lost what drove me to write in the first place. Was my attachment to the current version of my manuscript fueling my reluctance to do a deep revision? Was concern about getting published blocking my creativity? I realized that writing without the guarantee of publication is to sit at my cliff’s edge.

I hope that someday my young readers will join me at the cliff’s edge, daring to explore, create, and relish each moment as the gift it is. Ha! Yes, I still hope. But now, instead of clutching on to that outcome, I am working to let that hope be a whisper, as light as ash, inspiring me along the way.

The process of creating a business card at the Federal Express store sent me into something of a tizzy. Yeah, I’m of the generation that would use the word tizzy. Anyway, it wasn’t the technology that frazzled me.

It would help if you knew what led me into the computer kiosk to design a card in the first place. I’m headed to my third SCBWI-Midsouth conference and realized I would be, once again, a non-blogging, business-card-free, hashtag-challenged participant, a real anachronism in a conference full of smart, creative people connecting adeptly both on social media and in person.

Tired of being the one to dig around for a piece of paper to jot down my contact information, I decided to make a business card. My dilemma: What title do I put under my name? “Writer” seemed logical. But that 6-letter word shrieks with hubris or as my mother-in-law, raised in Hanson, Kentucky, would have called it, “putting on airs.”

I’ve never blanched when saying I’m a therapist (which is my day job), but I kept hitting the backspace key to erase the word “writer.” I easily dismissed the alternative suggested by one template, “author,” without even wasting a keystroke.

When can I say I’m a writer? I sure spend a lot of time writing, and I just finished a draft of my first book. But I wasn’t published, so that label felt too lofty.

Are you waiting for other’s approval before you call yourself a/an _______ (writer, musician, artist, blacksmith, calligrapher…)?

My need for outside approval side-tracked my writing altogether for a long time. When I was much younger, I submitted a few things to magazines and pitched a children’s book to an agent. All got rejected. As harsh as that agent’s criticism was, my internal critic was worse. “I’m not a writer,” I said to myself. And, sure enough, I quit writing.

Has your internal critic ever thwarted your process? Have you found your way back?

I eventually found my way back to writing, strangely, thanks to trauma. Moved by Cheryl Strayed’s authentic voice in her memoir, Wild, I began writing again, journaling, simply as a way to heal. I began to rediscover my voice. And I found the story (in the form of a middle grade novel) that only I could tell.

As Neil Gaiman said, “Start telling the stories that only you can tell, because there’ll always be better writers than you and there’ll always be smarter writers than you. There will always be people who are much better at doing this or doing that – but you are the only you.”

I hope you’ve found your way to continue doing what you love, even when self-doubt arises. For me, the rewards have been unexpected and satisfying:

• tap-tap-tapping on my laptop while sipping coffee alone at 5 a.m. when everyone else in the house is asleep,
• wrestling an awkward sentence into one that resonates with me,
• hearing my homeschool writing class students’ (8 – 13-year-olds) open-hearted encouragement, accompanied with the occasional high-pitched squeal that only girls that age can achieve (“I loooove it!” “What’s gonna happen next?” “Can I have a copy?”) and open-hearted criticism (“You need to make that character even meaner!”),
• meeting fascinating people at writing workshops, some of whom ended up having a profound influence on my life, and
• enjoying in-depth conversations and deepening friendships with people who have jumped into the creative process with me, providing insightful criticism, cheerleading, and humor.

My writing process has been messy and non-linear, a diligent practice punctuated by occasional periods of slothful inaction. Nonetheless, as my business card for writing conferences indicates, I am a writer. And with this post, I just entered the blogosphere!  Now, watch out for me on twitter. I mean, follow me on twitter @linda_combes   #youaretheonlyyou  #findingyourvoice