How I Became President of the Writers Afraid to Write Club
I just invented it, but membership is soaring…I assume.
If you’re a writer—or even just a reader—odds are you’ve read, thought about reading, or have been recommended to read Stephen King's On Writing. It’s been a staple of the craft since its publication in 2000. I’ve read it at least three times myself; first as required reading for a creative writing class in high school, and again a couple more times during and after college.
It’s a wonderfully comfortable and inviting writer’s manual, penned by, one might argue, the most prolific writer of our generation. King has been cranking out novels and short fiction since before many of us were even born, and bless him, he’s still going. But if I had to boil it down to a single sentence, I would, without hesitation, refer to his single most important piece of advice: if you want to be a writer, you must read every day and write every day. That’s the jist of it, anyway.
When I first read that as a high school sophomore, I thought, “psshh…That’s it? Easy. Deal.” For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be a writer. I loved books and stories and movies and television and music, and oh, how I loved them all together, all at once. I loved playing pretend, and dress up, creating my own stories. I even wrote stories on printer paper in crayon for my Grammie, my book shepherdess.
What happened to me as I got older happens to most of us: the pressure of choosing the right college major was really just a ruse for choosing the best money making endeavor—one that may or may not suit your talents or proclivities. And that’s an incredibly diabolical thing to do to children, isn’t it? Especially the creative yet painfully anxious ones, like myself. But that’s society for you. I fell deep into the crevice between artistry and profit (where you don’t accomplish either thing) and I’ve been attempting to crawl my way out ever since.
So am I not a “real” writer?
I lost the ambition to be a writer, not the desire, which is an important distinction. I was told it wasn’t a stable enough career, it wouldn’t make money, who knows how long I would struggle for, or how I’d ever be able to pay back those student loans (which I still haven’t, by the way, not even close. Who has?). I’ve now fixed myself on the path to become a writer, as a job, as a means of making money. And it’s scary. So scary I'm afraid to do it. And I can feel Mr. King’s fictional disappointment I've created in my head, I can hear his voice reminding me “but you don’t write every day…”
Yeah, I don’t. You got me there, Mr. King.
As someone who’s trudged through life with undiagnosed anxiety, I’ve been slowly yet desperately, trying to navigate through my troubles. Fear is among the biggest, trust me, I have all kinds of fears.
So yes, I'm afraid to write. But something suddenly dawned on me, and I had one of those moments, the “A-Ha!” kind, but less exciting; it was more, “oh…huh.”
I can’t be the only one, right? There’s no way. I’ve realized, in my not-so-long life, that usually, when you think you’re the only one, you never are. Hence, the formation of the Writers Afraid to Write Club. Welcome.
The Initiation.
So screw it. Now that you’re a member, here’s an odd little anecdote that I just can’t help but share.
By 30 years old, I thought I was the only person on the planet that was still watching, and still wildly (yet quietly, discreetly) OBsessed with the 1993 film adaption of The Secret Garden starring Dame Maggie Smith. Oh yes. It’s true. All through college and adulthood and marriage, I’ve never stopped watching that movie. I never thought to tell my husband about this “childish” fixation and I would watch it when he wasn’t home. And to my genuine surprise, I’m delighted to inform you that no, I am in fact, not alone. Indeed there are so many of us adult “Secret Gardeners” that an actual t-shirt has been made to celebrate this apparently universally beloved movie. I thought the world had forgotten this movie, and lo: it lives on inside so many of us.
And in case anyone was wondering, I did finally tell my husband, and even showed him the movie, and guess what? He loved it. (Obviously, it’s perfect.)
still from The Secret Garden, 1993, © Warner Bros. Pictures
So is anybody else…any other writers out there…living with this fear inside of them? What do we do about this? I have to be honest: when I had this a-ha moment, my first thought was, crazy enough, “I should write about that!” But now I’m here and I’ve told my tale, and hopefully someone has kept reading up to this point, and I don’t know what to do next.
I guess I was compelled to write this because I’m simply, really getting into this feeling of not being the only one. It’s comforting. Almost tingly. And it’s also been fueling me lately, driving me to write about all sorts of things because there’s no way I’m the only one that thinks this, or knows that, or wants to know more of, or is curious about [insert literally anything here]. There’s no way I’m the only one.
Think about dating or making friends, or any sort of bonding experience you’ve lived through. You’ve totally had that “is it just me, or…?” conversation, and someone, at least once has said, “no, me too!” I love that feeling. So today, on some normalish Monday, I decided to write about that feeling.
Fear drives a lot of decisions—and indecision—for many of us. For closeted creatives like myself, to put yourself out there, to expose your true self is overwhelming, sometimes harrowing. Although, I’m feeling a shift happening here. My fear of exposure is transforming into a fear of isolation or loneliness. Suddenly, camaraderie by way of authenticity has begun to look much more enticing.
We write because we must. It fulfills our basic human need to express ourselves, record our history, and satisfy our imaginations. It also helps feed that other basic human need: to be told stories. We crave stories and history and folklore and tall tales, we just do. Words and stories build connections, bridge gaps, and remind us that we’re not alone. It isn’t “just me” or “just you,” it almost never is. It's always us. The we, the many.
That makes it all sound so simple, doesn’t it? How disappointing that it never stops feeling so complicated.
You’re in the club. Now let’s burn it down.
As your President, I must decree: this Club shall be dissolved, disbanded, and dismantled, brick by brick. Because it sucks to be here.
To write is just fine. Lots of us do it every day with our journals, our diaries, our daily planners, and notes apps. But to publish? Yikes. To hit that button that sends it out into the ether for everyone to see—or worse, to not see—that’s the kind of fear that doesn’t just sit on your shoulder and whisper in your ear, it wraps itself around you. It’s likely been coiling up, up, and around your brain for a very long time.
You think you’re being hugged tightly by Reason; it’s a soft and gentle voice that tells you, “it’s okay you didn’t write today, you just didn’t have the time. You might not have time tomorrow either. Or the next day. Just get to it when you can.”
Step outside yourself for a moment and ask yourself where that thought is actually coming from. Is it Reason? Or is it actually Imposter Syndrome? Or Low Self-Esteem? Perhaps Depression? It can be any one of these or hoards of others. Step outside yourself and look. You might see one or two of them, or you might see the entire cast of your Inner Demons. You might also find that that comforting hug is really a chokehold. They might tell you they’re only trying to keep you safe from the world or from yourself; from the naysayers, the “experts,” the suits, the ones in charge, the ones who make the rules. However safe you might feel beneath their ever-tightening hands, holding you back in their haunting refuge, you must know that you’re missing out on so much more. So much growth and opportunity, and fun. Maybe money, too, or even love.
You know what else Stephen King famously wrote? “Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes they win.”
To live in fear is to know that there will never be enough time to do what you want or what needs to be done. To live fearlessly is to know that there will never, ever, be enough time to do it all, but to try and do it anyway.
Okay, one more King quote, for the road:
“You can, you should, and if you’re brave enough to start, you will.”
Don’t let those monsters and ghosts win. As writers, we’re haunted enough as it is. So write. Write it down, type it out, speak it into your smartphone, into existence. The whole point is that it needs to get out of you, so let it loose! Let it fly! Get. It. Out.
Hit that publish button. I’m gonna. And if no one reads it, keep writing and publishing anyway. We write because we must. We read because we must.
And someday, if we’re all very lucky, not one, not two, but maybe a whole, proper bunch of people, will read our words—words that we were so very brave to pull out of ourselves, whatever they may be—and they’ll undoubtedly sigh that gorgeous sigh of relief and say “man, I thought it was just me.” They will. Because it almost never is.
still from The Secret Garden, 1993, © Warner Bros. Pictures
