Community

In my last post (it’s been a while, I know), I wrote about the motivation and accountability that I get from exercising with other people. There’s something about having that sense of community, about knowing that, whatever you’re doing, you’re not doing it alone, that pushes you to give just that little bit more. One extra push up. That final sprint.

This is also true, I’ve come to realise, with regards to writing. It’s a solitary practise, writing. Hours spent in front of a keyboard (or a notebook and pen) knowing that it is you alone who must transform the blank page into … something. It can feel overwhelming, especially for someone like me who overthinks everything. Who is constantly held back by my own insecurities.

Writing is tough

Why do it then? I’ve wrestled with this question repeatedly. Why not just let it go? I’ve tried, believe me. The fact that writing is so difficult, has kept me from living my dream for decades. If it is this hard, I reasoned, it mustn’t be for me. It didn’t matter how many times I heard that even the most seasoned of writers struggle. I was different. For me it was too hard. More difficult than it could possibly be for anyone else. Otherwise why—how— could they do it? How could they turn up blank page after blank page. Book after book. Knowing that they’d not only have to face these feelings of uncertainty and fear, but they’d have to bypass them in order to produce the work.

I could have gone on like that forever. Wistfully longing to be a writer, whilst telling myself that it isn’t meant to be. Then something changed. I finally reached the stage where not writing became more difficult that actually doing it. I realised that I’d lived my entire adult life with this nagging feeling that there was something missing. That, no matter what else I’d tried to fill that gaping hole, it didn’t go away. I came to the conclusion then, that even if my writing never amounted to anything, I still had to do it. It reminded me of something Elizabeth Gilbert wrote in Big Magic:

“I didn’t make a promise that I would be a successful writer, because I sensed that success was not under my control. Nor did I promise that I would be a great writer, because I didn’t know if I could be great. Nor did I give myself any time limits for the work, like, “If I’m not published by the time I’m thirty, I’ll give up on this dream and go find another line of work.” In fact, I didn’t put any conditions or restrictions on my path at all. My deadline was: never. Instead, I simply vowed to the universe that I would write forever, regardless of the result. I promised that I would try to be brave about it, and grateful, and as uncomplaining as I could possibly be. … I did not ask for any external rewards for my devotion; I just wanted to spend my life as near to writing as possible—forever close to that source of all my curiosity and contentment—and so I was willing to make whatever arrangements needed to be made in order to get by.”

Qualified

For the past three years, since I quit my job, I have been trying to honour this newfound commitment. It has been a time of exploration. Of following my curiosity. Of figuring out what exactly it is that I want to write. It hasn’t all been plain sailing. I have wasted hours, days, weeks, procrastinating. Giving in to my fear. Holding myself back. But I have persevered.

While I don’t believe that anyone has to be qualified in order to be a good writer, I am also someone who feels like I need to be qualified in order to be a good writer. Coming from a working-class background, having those letters after my name gives me a sense of credibility. It also gives me something to hide behind. I’m no stranger then, to writing courses, buying my first (I didn’t complete it) over two decades ago. The thing I learned from my many attempts at learning to write, is that, completing a writing course does not make you a writer. In fact, for me at least, it is just another unwelcome distraction. Learning about writing, is not writing.

It came as a surprise to even me then, when I signed up for my latest course on a whim. The email landed in my inbox with an imminent closing date and … I don’t know, it just felt right. It was a selective course. There were be only 15 other students. The tutor is an renowned author in her genre. And it would be delivered by a reputable publishing company in the UK. I didn’t have any expectations for the content, honestly. I was already learning so much from Brandon Sanderson’s Writing Lectures on YouTube, which are not only hugely informative and engaging (I’m convinced this man in a genius) but they are also free. What I was hoping to get from the course, was a writing group.

Transformed

What I realised a few weeks in, is this. The true value of theoretical knowledge can only be realised when it is put into practise. Reading the work of others in light of what we were being taught gave me an invaluable insight into my own work in progress. My initial 3,000 word submission substantially improved even before I received feedback from the tutor and my fellow writers. In those short weeks I lost 5,000 words of dead weight from my first couple of chapters alone.

The writing group that we have since formed, has transformed the way in which I approach my work. Before, it took me over a year to write 40,000 words, this week alone I wrote 12,000. I plan to finish my first draft within the month. Waking up to a message from someone who is championing my budding story saying, I was just thinking about this and what if this happened?—who is invested in my journey—I can’t tell you the comfort that brings. I feel held in a space where feedback is gently delivered so as not to hurt my delicate artistic ego. Where others are as invested in my outcome, as I am theirs. Knowing that I get to play a small part in somebody else’s writing evolution feels so special.

In it together

The biggest thing I’ve learned is that we’re all then same. Writing is hard. Imposter syndrome in not unique to me. We all wobble. Except now, there is someone on the other end of a message who will pick me up. Who will remind me that I’m not alone.

I’ve been lucky in that I’ve always had somewhat of a writing community. Always had people who have championed my dreams. One friend and fellow writer has been instrumental in my finding the self-belief to begin at all. His support and feedback invaluable, especially in those first years. Now, communicating daily with like-minded others who on are on a similar path to my own, I’ve finally found permission to take myself seriously as a writer. To commit fully to my project without expectation, knowing that I have no choice. That writing is my purpose. That it’s what I choose, regardless of the outcome.