Writing, And The Fear That It's Crap

So as I wrote in a blog post a couple of days ago, I finished a first draft of my book this past weekend. And it was quite an accomplishment for me after two unsuccessful attempts prior to this one.

But after the elation passed and I realized I'd have to look at what I actually wrote, I sort of became paralyzed. Although not exactly immediately.

Initially I picked up my big red pen with an almost frenzied eagerness. When the ink sputtered, I got out my trusty candle lighter to burn the tip and make it flow again. And I got down to it.

And I smiled. I smiled a lot to be honest. And started marking up that text left and right, up and down, scribbling in the margins and crossing out sections. But despite all the red, at no time did my inner critic question my sense of pride or my writing abilities.

But then I stopped. And I didn't look at it for two days after that, paralyzed by some weird unknown that was preventing me from even looking at this piece of writing I had worked so hard to create. I simply couldn't muster up the (guts? courage? energy?) to go near it.

And at some point during that time my mind drifted back to my college professor. I forget his name, and I don't want to remember. I studied English in college and only elected to take one creative writing class during my entire stint as an English major. And it was a poetry class.

We had to write 8 poems over the course of the semester, one every two weeks or so, and turn them in to be evaluated. I hadn't attempted to write fiction since I was a kid, tapping away at the word processor on the floor of the spare bedroom. And this was a writing class that I approached with quite a bit of anxiety and trepidation, already feeling like I was a failure before I had even started.

And when it turned out that the professor just hated, I mean hated, everything I wrote, I think something was altered in my psyche. It was to the point where he would use my work every other week as an example of how not to write. And after maybe five poems, I finally made an appointment to confront him about it.

"Why do you keep using my work, week after week, as your sample of bad writing?"

"What do you mean?"

"Every single time we turn in our work, and we're discussing it the following week as a class, you always use mine as your sample for the worst work that was turned in. Why are you singling me out like this? I'm trying my hardest. What do I have to do to get an A in the class?"

He looked at me, probably looking through me really. You see, his wife had hung herself from their ceiling fan so I knew he had a few issues. But it didn't matter, because he was a published poet and in his mind my writing was crap. And somehow, that meant his opinion was valid.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize I was doing that."

I looked him right in the eye, lasers, daggers, whatever you want them to be.

"Just keep doing your best. I will make sure to not do that."

And I turned and walked out.

And here I am more than a decade later, looking at this completed draft of a book. And knowing that it's my third attempt because I was convinced the first two were absolute crap. And I can't help but wonder how much of that mindset is due to this professor. This professor who instilled a fear in me of trying to create, and of showing my work to the world, and who convinced me that I was a paltry writer with no hope for redemption.

Of course I'm in my thirties now and I know that all writing is subjective. And to be honest, I thought his work was crap, because he made us listen to him recite it at readings. It was dark, weird, twisted, and disturbing. But then I guess I can see why that was the case.

But I think all artists have a deep fear that their work isn't good enough, don't you? The problem is when someone actively comes out and stokes those fears until they have burned down the entire building. If you know what I mean.

But I am not to be overcome by fears. Not when I could be halfway through my life and I still have a lot that I want to accomplish - writing a book being one of those. So last night I got out my red pen again and I finished working through Chapter One. And then I whipped out my laptop and started editing.

And I told myself that all will be ok, just work. Just keep working, keep writing. Fear is normal. The best thing to do is to keep at it, believe in yourself, and not let others' opinions paint your reality. Because that's their reality, not yours. And everything is subjective.