The True Source of a Writer's Insecurity

I'm currently working on a book about writing fearlessly, a subject about which I have written for the last eight years, and which I have begun teaching in the last two or three. This has provided me with an unusual creative launching pad. Normally I start a book knowing very little other than something looks interesting and I would like to find out why. I felt I knew exactly why I was interested in this book when I started it. I have written and talked and written and talked about this subject so much that when my proposal was accepted I thought that all I would have to do is transcribe what I already knew into book form.

What a relief, I thought as I settled into Chapter One. So many questions that crowd around a new project already felt answered. I did not need to ask myself, "What's this book really about?" or, "Where's this book going?" How nice, I thought, to write one book without the quiet insecurity that hovers over a blank page.

Then I started writing. No, writing is not quite the word - typing would be more accurate. For instance, the book is filled with small, illustrative stories, many of which I've told dozens of times. I could type them as an actor would his lines from a play, which is just what I began doing. - until I noticed I was cranky at the end of my workday. This has happened plenty of times, but only when I've had a crap writing session, when the story went nowhere, when nothing felt answered and I pushed myself back from the desk filled with doubt and a creeping sense of self-loathing.

Except it wasn't a crap writing session. I'd written five perfectly good pages. I had no doubt whatsoever that I'd use them. You're just bored, I thought as I went for a brisk walk. No matter how well you know the subject, you've got to leave room for discovery. You've got to find something new. There's always something new.

Having bucked myself up, I returned to work the following day ready to improvise. Improvise I did, and I finished my day's work as I always hoped to: feeling calm, rejuvenated, and interested in life. In truth, if I feel this way after a session it doesn't matter if I've written five sentences or fives pages, it was a good day's work. That wasn't boredom I felt yesterday, I realized as I got up from the desk - that was insecurity.

I've heard writing described as leaping off a cliff and learning to fly on the way down. How easy it is to mistake the blank page as the source of my writer's insecurity. Yet to simply type words onto the page requires no connection to that which answers my creative questions. My security does not come from my craft, or my readership, or my publishing contract, or my reviews, or even the surprising pleasure of discovery. My security comes entirely from what I am connected to while discovering. Everything else is a happy product of that connection but not a replacement. Contracts, reviews, and even lovely words on the page could no more replace that connection than could wings replace a desire to fly.

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