When I read “You are not your writing” in a craft book, I interpreted it as a healthy response to rejection. (I can’t remember where I read it so I’m not sure who to attribute it to).
I wrote for a health and supplementation company straight out of college for a while. I did a lot of research (research that I wasn’t actually qualified to do, but I didn’t know that then) and squeezed my brain until I composed whatever my editor was looking for.
The articles that I wrote ever only appeared online, but I still found it satisfying. The excitement of a byline with my name on it more than compensated for my editor’s requests to have an article turned around in a few mere hours. I was young and willing to stay up until the wee hours of the morning to get the job done. I took satisfaction in the sound of my fingers clicking the keys as I drank my tea.
Then I left writing as an income source because I thought I needed to “get a real job.” One of many facepalm moments in the life of 20-something Stacey.
When I returned to writing for an income about 6 months ago, I knew not to expect too much. I’d been out of the game for a long time. I had some expected misses but was okay with striking out professionally. I actually felt like I had to make it easier on editors who seemed to feel bad turning me down. I’d read enough about how hard it is to determine the branding of any publication unless you’re the editor yourself and was aware of the political elements that operate in the background of every industry.
I never took any of those professional strikeouts personally. I just focused on the fortuitous hits that got me back on the field. Publishing is, after all, a business.
But when I joined a writing group and tried to write something about a dear mentor of mine who I admired greatly, I felt lost. I struggled to write the piece because I wanted to properly honor this person who I admired so much. Writing paralysis occurred as a result.
I was so determined to find the right words that adequately represented this person that I struggled to get anything down on the paper. When I finally did get things down on the paper, I knew it wasn’t working. I knew that it wasn’t good and that I needed a lot of help and that I was holding myself back with my own fear.
I felt awkward as soon as I started sharing at my writers’ group. It was bad. Hearing myself say each sentence out loud made how bad it was even more obvious. I wanted to stop after the first paragraph and crawl into a hole, but I didn’t know how to without making things more awkward. I just kept forcing myself forward like a front-line soldier.
What I didn’t anticipate was how much the negative feedback would hurt. This time, I knew I hadn’t failed because of misunderstanding a magazine’s branding or some political factors. I knew that I had failed because the writing was stilted, awkward, and overly self-aware.
I felt like I had let my mentor down. I felt responsible for showing the world how wonderful this person was, how strong in the faith, and how much I aspired to be like them. As each critique came in, failing someone I admired so much devastated me.
I sobbed privately in my car after receiving the feedback, not wanting Cub to see me upset and worry when I got home.
My coping strategy for these kinds of things is as follows: I cry privately when I can, then journal about it when I have the time, and I typically move on in a day or two. In this case, I journaled about it the following day and moved forward emotionally the day after that.
I have had other hits and misses since then, both personally and professionally, but nothing has stung like that time I failed writing about my mentor. When I missed, I shook it off with much greater ease, and when I hit, I looked forward to the paycheck.
This past week, I had two hits in my personal writing and I found myself reciting this mantra, “You are not your writing,” for the opposite reason.
I attended a poetry workshop (in the Grandin theater, for local followers of this blog) open to the public even though I’m not a poet. I know I’m not a poet because I tried in college, and everything I wrote was Dashboard Confessional-level cringey.
At this poetry workshop, they had a free write period and sharing time at the end. We read a Pablo Neruda poem beforehand, and my 21-24 year-old self came back to life. I did an immersion program in Valencia, Spain for 6 months in undergrad and lived in Barcelona for 2 years after college.
Those years were cliché in the best and worst ways. I bought European clothes, ditched my comfortable walking shoes, and explored all the museums in sparkly gold ballet flats. I learned to cook foods I’d never heard of. I fell in love, and I of course experienced profound loss.
I also read lots of poetry and philosophical books that seem as remote to me as the moon now that I’m a mom with no leisure time.
But reading the poetry I read at that age unlocked a version of myself I haven’t seen in 15 years. I remembered the revelry of living abroad, the feeling that confetti might fall from the sky at any moment because everything was magic when things were good.
I remembered the boyfriends I kissed, and the bars I danced until dawn in, and the girlfriends who were also expats (from Brazil and Argentina) who became my family, especially when things with our respective boyfriends were going badly.
The muse came upon me. Youthful energy stirred within me, and time turned backwards during the free writing period. I wrote straight out of the soul of my 22-year-old self. A vortex opened up and intense sincerity poured out.
I wasn’t sure if it was actually good or not, but knew that it came from some place of deep honesty inside me. So I started to read, wondering if it actually sucked. Are people sitting there thinking how bad this is?
A hush fell over the room when I was done reading. I wasn’t sure what it meant. Oh my gosh, is this as bad as when Itried writing about my mentor? Ok, just stay chill no matter what they say. Please don’t cry in front of people!
“Wow,” said someone in the back. I still wasn’t sure if it was a good or a bad thing.
“Thank you,” the woman sitting next to me said. She locked eyes with me meaningfully.
“Damn. That was amazing,” said someone else.
When it came time to leave, someone else approached me and said, “I wanted to tell you that I really enjoyed what you wrote.” I breathed a sigh of relief and let myself smile for a few minutes on the drive home.
Then I got back to work.
A few days later, I met with my writers’ group and brought a piece that I had been revising in fits and starts for about 4 months. When I was done, I had that same feeling of wondering that whether they would like it or think it was terrible. I held my breath as the comment and critique time commenced. I reminded myself to remain chill no matter what happened. Plot twist!
“That imagery was beautiful.”
“You used such strong verbs that brought this piece to life.”
“The conflict immediately drew me in. You had conflict with the self, peer-to-peer conflict, child to adult conflict.” I did? I didn’t even realize that.
“You had me from the first sentence.”
I was so startled that I just repeatedly said thank you. While I had worked hard on polishing this piece, I didn’t expect such specific praise. I kept waiting for the “This is so terrible” to be delivered by someone in polite terms, but it never came.
I allowed myself to feel jubilant for a few minutes on the way home. But then I told myself, “You are not your writing.” Because I believe that this advice is just as important for writerly highs as it is for lows.
I once believed that I was searching for a cosmic plot of a novel that would put me on the literary map. I fantasized about unearthing magical turns of phrase that people would remember. I thought that one magical moment would somehow define my literary future. (Cringey, I know. You can think it).
Turns out that that’s totally not the case. This business of writing is a life-long business. The successes and the failures do not define me. While that praise was fun to receive, it doesn’t change anything.
The process of putting pen to paper is still the same.
My writerly goals remain unchanged.
My identity as God’s daughter is not impacted by praise or criticism.
It’s no use falling into self condemnation when you write a dud. As I once read, “Everyone writes a dud sometimes.”
But it’s just as important not to fall into the trap of believing that your work is done when the praise comes. Writerly highs are fun but short lived. I am not my writing, and neither are you.
Ok, tender friends, thank you for stopping by today! Stay blessed!
I don’t write about the writer’s life very often, but if you enjoyed this you might enjoy this post also.
For those of you who are new, thank you! This coming week I’ll be writing about learning to pray the “Prayer that Scares” and a healing moment I had with God. I have tons of content to release that’s not time-dependent, but will also be including some more “in the moment” content as the weather heats up. Please reach out if you want to see more of any particular kind of content!
Thank you for sharing!
tea and tenderness 
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