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
Linda Combes Writes 