A Thought to Think – Writers

I suppose one of the very worst things about being a writer, is that you automatically open yourself up to large amounts of criticism. In essence, writing was written to be criticized. Not everyone can say this about their profession.

For example, I cannot criticize an engineer’s ability to solve an equation. He can either do it, or he cannot. I cannot criticize an athlete’s ability to finish a race. She can either do it, or she cannot. But writing is subjective. Writing is not for the faint of heart, or the weak stomached. Writing is for those who have the courage to bear their souls on paper, and then give up their offering to be devoured by the lions of society. And it seems that’s the way it has always been. No matter the author, or the level of skill and success they author possessed, someone will always have a criticism. William Faulkner, Flannery O’Connor, Earnest Hemingway, Charles Dickens, Homer… Every person who decided to undertake to share their thoughts on paper with the world, underwent criticism at some time in their life.

“Ah,” I think to myself. “If writing is so subjective, I shall simply give my writing to those who view things the same way I do. Then I shall always be a ‘good writer.'” What a horrible thought! How will I ever improve without criticism? How will I ever find my own aesthetic if I do not compare it to others?

Of course, it’s arguable that authors are their own worst critics. It’s true that if I waited for my work to sound perfect, I would never post again. I compare myself so horribly to others. I wince when I read something amazing, because instead of appreciating the talent and brilliance of what I have read, I see it beside mine and immediately dislike my own. The dark thoughts cloud my head, “if I am not the best at what I do, why should I at all?” What horrible, selfish thoughts! I have put myself in the forefront and I have done a disservice to myself, and to those around me. Why can I not simply write because I love it?

How did I, the girl who can stand no critique, the girl full of jealousy, the perfectionist, become a writer? I’d like to take a moment to indulge myself in my own silly clichés. “I didn’t choose writing, it chose me.” But how true that is for me. I have written since I was a young girl, barely old enough to spell. I wrote the story of how I bought my first stuffed animal. And the very reason I wrote that story was to capture the emotion I felt in that moment. The feelings whirled inside of me, excitement, anticipation, accomplishment. I knew the only way I could be content was to let those words out, to see them on paper, to perfect my feelings through my most beautiful possession, words. So I wrote. And I continued to write, and take pride in my work. I was always the best writer in my class. I realized in high school, that perhaps I would write forever, and make it my career. Of course I also learned in high school that I am not the only one who could write. I was never the prettiest girl, or the funniest girl, or the most popular girl. I was happy with who I was, but I was average. Writing seemed to be the only thing I could do better than most. I remember realizing “there will always be someone better, and there will always be someone worse.” Although I found no solace in the fact. Instead I continued to wish that I was the best. I continue to long for validation. Am I really so unhappy with myself, that I need everyone who reads my writing to validate my own confidence?

Until I realized, writing isn’t about validation, or being “the best.” It’s about doing what you love, for the hopeful betterment of someone else. Good writers write because they can only pray that their own lives on paper will help and bring pleasure to someone else. I have found this to be true. When I finish an amazing story like, The Glass Menagerie, The Fault In Our Stars, or Ethan Frome, I suddenly see the beauty in words, and I remind myself all over that I want desperately to do the same for someone else. Authors, men and women I have never met, bring me to tears and laughter and heartache through their writing. Words, little squiggles on paper, are touching my heart, and expanding my mind. They have created something from a mere thought! Writing is too beautiful for me to twist it to match my own agenda. Writing is too valuable, for me to use it simply to feed my own ego. Words are so valuable to me. I put a great emphasis on the words people have to say to me. When I get a compliment, I bask in its glow for longer than I should, and lock it away in a box of happiness, longer than I should. Wouldn’t my writing be better if I hoped to never get another compliment on it? Wouldn’t I use it for its true purpose? Instead of using my words for the intention of getting praise, I must write with the deep desire to benefit someone by it.

So like every time before, I force myself to click the enter key, and I publish my thoughts to a web page, open and ready for anyone with a computer to read and to criticize. Perhaps you will read it and hate it. Perhaps you will love it. Perhaps you will think nothing at all of it. Perhaps you will wonder why a girl you’ve never met thinks she has the right to share her thoughts and use the word “perhaps” all too often. I wonder the same thing.

But I cannot stop. I cannot stop. I love words a little too much to see past anything else. I will always love words because they gave me a home, a place where I felt I belonged. Maybe this is all one big test for me. A test of my ability not only to write, but a test of my ability to accept criticism, and the realization that I will never be good enough. Oh, please do not feel sorry for me when I say “not good enough.” “Not good enough” is beautiful, because it means I can continue to learn and grow. It means my writing can become more beautiful.

So if you read this, I thank you. You have spent your own valuable time on a girl with a bunch of selfish thoughts regarding her passion. If you disliked it, please tell me. You are serving me well. And if you liked it, I ask you not to compliment me, for I must grow not to love my own self-image quite so much. I ask instead that you simply smile, and say, “you’re getting better.” If nothing else, I ask for your complete honesty. That’s all I suppose in writer could ever want to hear. That’s all I suppose anybody ever wants to hear.