Writer Anxiety

Writing - for me - has its roots in reading. I was a reader before I was a writer. I didn't understand, initially, how books were produced, so the very first book I tried to write (at the age of six) was handwritten, and I was in agony because nothing I could write by hand looked as clear, as good, as all the other books. My mother attempted to explain that these books - the ones I loved - were not written by hand; they were typed. We had a type writer.

So I then tried to somehow type. But also: I couldn't draw for all the money in the world, and my first attempt was a picture book, which was mostly what I was reading.

The impetus was, of course, to create a book, because I loved books.

But it was a stunning failure, to my mind. I couldn't create books. The authors who created these books - and again, the entirety of publication and printing presses was beyond me - must be magic.

I could, however, still read them, and did. I loved reading as a child; it was a private space, a personal space, a space which fired imagination and daydream. Since I had failed to write and draw an acceptable book by hand, I made no second attempt for a very long time.

*

Reading never left me. I could love a broader array of things. I moved from picture books (I am not inherently a visual person) to text. The first all-text book I read made me feel like a Real Adult. (I was seven at the time, and that book, sadly, is not one I can reread without a visceral urge to throw it at the nearest wall.)

I continued to read. At some point I realized that these books were obviously not the product of handwriting because how could there be so many of them that were all the same? I added knowledge--imperfect knowledge--to what I knew.

And... at some point, in my teen years, I once again attempted to create a book - by which I mean write one. HOWEVER, at that time, I did not make any attempt to show anyone else. The only people who saw my writing were teachers. They patted me on the head for what I showed them. I got good marks.

...they were not well-written. They were what I could do at the time. I still have one of them and cannot read past page 2, because all my cringe muscles have cramped from overuse.

In my later teen years, I wrote poetry. I *can* read some of that without cringing. I refined that as I entered university, but... I still wrote. I wrote fantasy. It... was not good. The English student teacher we had made that clear - and it stung. But... he wasn't wrong.

So I wrote partial novels, but again: I did not submit them, didn't workshop them, didn't show them to anyone. I wrote them largely because I felt the compulsion to get them out of my head. I started--as I start now, oddly enough--with scenes that *for me* have a strong emotional punch.

But in those early days, I would start with that scene. And I would write those scenes that moved me, on the inside of my head. And then I'd be left with a whole bunch of scenes that featured the same characters, but were entirely disconnected.

The attempt to be more methodical, the attempt to connect them all, did not work. At all. Because I would start the connective writing, and the writing would have a will of its own, and I'd end up with something that was moving in the wrong direction--it would never connect to the scenes that I'd written.

This was when I realized that Michelle cannot write in pieces. I had to write from page one. I had to write toward the scenes that had moved me, and if I never actually reached those scenes, they weren't meant to be part of the book - even if they had been the original inspiration.

But again: I did not show anyone anything I was writing. Except the poetry, which I did continue to write, and the English teachers who wanted proof of work.

*

It was an English teacher who said that she thought I had talent and I should focus on writing my own stories. That would be toward the end of High School.

But as it happens, while I continued to write poetry, I did not make a further attempt at novels. I had received, by this point, the wisdom that if one wanted to "break into" writing for publication, try short stories. My third attempt at a for-publication short story became four novels. Those novels were published.

I had become a Real Writer!

...

That had been a goal, for me. As if somehow becoming published, having an actual book in my hands (this was 1991, so there were no ebooks or audiobooks, by and large), would somehow be the secret key that would transform me into a competent, confident writer.

I was published! I was an author! I could now write my books without doubt and uncertainty. I thought that I had finally arrived at a place where confidence would shore me up, where I had nothing to prove, where writing would be joy and not littered constantly with uncertainty, angst, and fear as a book progressed.

I did not expect that the opposite would be true. But: the opposite was, in fact, true.

*

A writer whose first book had been published, on a mailing list I'm on, said: This was *so hard*. All you people who have written multiple published books, please tell me it gets easier.

There was laughter. Mostly we tried not to say it gets harder. But it does. Because as we progress, as our writing abilities and tools become more refined, as we get *better*, we begin to realize all the ways in which we weren't very good when we were first published.

That's one. The second thing is: there are readers now. I wrote these books to be read, unlike my first (not very good) attempts; I wasn't writing for just myself. I wrote these books to convey story, to convey emotion, and to invoke it. When they failed to have that result, it was bruising.

But I reasoned that I wasn't Good Enough Yet. And I continued.

It would be books - I think six in total - before I realized that *my* version of Good Enough was not necessarily in sync with readers; good enough did not equate with success. And at this point, success, or enough success, was the only thing that would guarantee that I could continue to be published.

Could I continue to write? Yes. But I wouldn't have a publisher. It was a whole new stress, an added layer, a whole extra fear.

And on bad writing days, I was certain that it was a fluke; that I didn't actually deserve to be published because Real Writers would not feel this way. Writers whose work was brilliant. Writers whose work I loved. Yes, I had a book in my hands - but it wasn't *that* book. It wasn't that good.

On good writing days, that wasn't the over-riding thought. But I still had dreams of reaching the "good" space, of finally becoming confident and fearless.

*

And so, many books later, here we are. I have not reached that space. I will never write a novel that does not leave me doubting myself or the book I am clearly failing when the writing is hard or I've made a bad choice and have to unravel way too many words. Or I have to start a book four times from page one.

But in the interim, I fully accepted that that space--that certain confident space--was a chimera. It was a daydream. It was the whole of the sky and while I had managed to scale Everest, I was never, ever going to reach sky. I could see it so clearly, but it would remain forever beyond me.

*

When I realized this, I also accepted that doubt and fear and anxiety and Imposter Syndrome were actually part of my process. I *hated* that; to my more pragmatic mind, they serve no purpose. Am I going to write the book? Yes. Am I going to finish it? Yes. Then what good is writer anxiety? How does it help anything? I have demonstrably managed to finish a novel. Or forty of them--can't I just ignore all this?

The answer is: sometimes.

But lurking in the back of the writer-brain, for each and every book, is the dread that the book I'm working on now--whichever book that happens to be--will be the book that will finally make readers realize that I'm not really a writer. This is the book that will turn them off my books.

No matter how much I argue with writer-brain, at some point in the writing of every single book, doubt returns like a looming storm cloud. Therefore, since this has always been true, it's a burden that just has to be carried; there has to be some way to move forward while shouldering it.

Because process has always fascinated me, I realized that all writers struggle with this. But I've seen some who just stop writing. They can't climb over the wall of doubt when it's particularly bad. I'm stubborn enough that I am going to climb that wall one way or the other - but I think it helps me to know that it is very, very common.

So: to those who are writing and who are struggling and staggering under the weight of that anxiety, I want to say one thing: keep writing. Keep doing the work.

It helps me to focus on only the work while I'm writing, when that's possible. To confine doubt to the things I can influence.

...and to realize that while there are bad writing days, there are also good writing days, days in which story flows and disparate strands begin to twine together, and a book is emerging from the chaos.

***

This post is mirrored from https://michellewest.ca/

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