I inhaled deeply and sat back at the edge of the chair, every inch of my body clenched into a state of anxious tautness. A sea of silence surrounded me, people digesting what had just been read to them, their minds whirring with the process of absorption and evaluation. There were nudges transmitted to one another telepathically- ‘You go’, ‘No you go.’ And then one brave person began, “I really liked the idea, but here’s what you could try changing …”
***
Thus began the forty-five-minute dissection of the piece of writing I’d just shared with a group of experienced critiques: what was good; what wasn’t; assessments of grammar, punctuation, transition, point of view etc.
It was as though I’d worn the wrong outfit to a fancy ball, hoping to elicit admiration and wonder, but in the face of crisp tuxedos and elegant gowns, I was reduced to an under-dressed, gob smacked fool. It was the most dreadful thing, to feel this unprepared for constructive criticism.
Here I was, a twenty-seven-year-old lass attempting to expand a whimsical hobby into something more. How silly was I to think I could actually be a writer? How could I let myself be deluded into believing that such a wild fantasy could turn to reality? Stupid, stupid girl.
I didn’t go back to the Writers meet-ups for weeks, finding excuses to be busy and thus unable to spare two hours once every fortnight. It was easier to lie back on my couch and binge-watch sitcoms. My once effervescent urge to blog religiously was dying and I was slowly turning into a glass of flat Coke, loaded with stale sugar but no bubbling potential.
***
It was my obsessive need to not feel judged that made me decide to try again. What did those people think of me? A talent-less freak who churned garbage? A quitter? No, I had to go back and redeem myself, show them that I wasn’t a coward. I imagined myself casually conversing with them and then midway weaving a story about cropped-up commitments that would prevent me from returning in the future. And voila! I could save face and they would never have to hear any of my amateur crap anymore.
Saturday evening came and I made it to Starbucks. As I sat crouched in a cozy corner, sipping on my cup of Earl Grey tea and waiting for the rest of the group, another fellow member joined me. He was a poet whose work I was completely daunted by. Sensing my awkwardness, he struck a conversation with me.
After some polite chatting, he looked me in the eye and asked, “I haven’t seen you for a while. Why’d you stop coming?”
My mouth went dry, but I managed a weak smile and replied, “I’ve been busy…”
He shook his head and his lips curved into an “I’m not buying that” frown. I felt like the bone of my skull was replaced with glass and he could see right into my head. There it was, that giant tumor growing, a lump of insecurity and failed validation, weighing down on all my capabilities.
With a stern gaze he went on to say, “Let me tell you something. Write for yourself first. Everyone else is an accidental audience.”
I blushed with embarrassment. Was I that easy to read as an individual? Even at that moment I was merely hearing his words, not listening to them.
He went on to explain, “We come to this group to share our love for writing. But it is a massive blunder to choose to define your abilities based on others’ opinion of your work. You need to set your own standards and keep getting better. But first, decide to write your heart out.”
So simple right? I mean if I thought about it, that was how I started off as a little girl. With a lavender scented pen I used to sit and scribble away in my journal. Fights with my mother, how much I adored the boy on my bus, why the bursting-with-pus pimples were my sworn enemies. In retrospect it was such rubbish, but it was fearless rubbish. The words were stained with a lack of care for what anyone else might possibly think if they stumbled upon an open page.
I decided to take his advice and plant it in my head; after all, I had nothing to lose.
***
Change is slow, especially when it involves a way of thinking you’ve become so accustomed to. But it happened. And it’s still happening. The blaring editing voice within my head which used to constantly question, “Will they like it? Will they like it?” has softened and the words flow easier. Some days I write about shopping for door knobs, some days the struggles of womanhood; but the point is, I keep at it, even if I’m almost sure most of my musings will never be deemed valuable enough to be read by anyone besides me.
Writing is an art, which means that there will always be a tussle between the blur of creativity and finding guidelines that define its ‘wholesomeness’. As an artist (Yes, I allow myself the privilege of this title), we are forced to ask ourselves- Who is your audience? What is your message? While this is a good framework to follow because writing does need some form of structure; before we subject our work to be scrutinized, we must first produce it for ourselves and feel content with what we created. Everything else comes later.
Being brave doesn’t just mean baring your soul to the world and taking their stabs gracefully. It goes beyond that. Sometimes it means having the courage to say that you are okay to be happy with yourself.
And that is what writing does for me. It fulfills me.
Everyone else, is accidental.
—
This story was first published at The Writing Cooperative – helping each other write better.
