Dealing With Doubt

Although I've spent countless hours teaching and studying the writing process for the past 6+ years, as I begin my first novel (my most extensive writing project yet) I'm gaining a newfound appreciation for the experience. I've also discovered that I'm connecting with many of my former students from afar as I find myself echoing doubts I've heard them express in my classroom:

"I can't do this."

"I'm not good enough."

"Why does this story even matter?"

"What if nobody likes it?"

"Maybe I'm actually a terrible writer and no one has told me yet."

"I'm never going to finish this."

In my experience, the very students who are riddled with such doubts tend to produce some of the most incredible writing. I've read essays written by 14 year olds that moved me to tears, inspired me to be a better person, and made me laugh aloud in the solitude of my classroom while I read over them during the grading process. Although grading is admittedly soul-sucking, I will truly miss reading the carefully crafted words of people half my age who manage to teach me so much about the human existence. Each of those students has, at one point during our year together, faced their own insecurities about their writing, and it's been my job to encourage them to move through this experience.

When I am supporting my students' writing in the classroom, I can typically think of what to say to keep them going in these moments of doubt. It's a privilege to accompany them throughout their journey regardless of the path they take. I love watching teenagers grow into young adults throughout the year, and I love witnessing their writing skills develop alongside them. I try to assure my students that however isolating writing may feel at times, we are truly all in it together. I warn them from the beginning of any major project that each of us will have our own struggles. We discuss how even professional authors stumble through the process. We often read Anne Lamott's "Shitty First Drafts" if I think the class can handle me saying "shit" multiple times in a row. When I get a class who is receptive to Anne's idea of blasting out word vomit onto the page before polishing it up at a later date, I can see their shoulders relax as we read. I hear their sighs of relief. A thoughtful discussion tends to follow. I guess there's something about hearing it from a professional writer and not just your English teacher that makes it feel credible. Thank goodness for my pal, Anne, to whom thousands of ELA teachers are forever indebted.

Sometimes we all need to be given permission to get messy, particularly within the creative process. Anne Lamott was the first writer who gave me that freedom, and I eagerly share her wisdom with anyone who is willing to listen -- students, colleagues, and fellow creatives alike. Despite my deep belief in her "shitty" philosophy, the massive undertaking of writing a novel has exposed the double standards I uphold for myself.

As thrilled as I am to be pursuing a lifelong dream, the past few weeks of dedicated writing time have exposed a landfill's worth of self doubt. Of course, every writer has their insecurities, and I expected that as part of the journey, but going into this I didn't consider the relationship between the number of hours spent writing and the volume of doubts and criticisms that pervade practically every line I write. Having a couple of anxiety disorders sprinkled into the mix doesn't make anything easier.

Although Anne's words have ushered me through many of these doubtful moments, unfortunately she's not (yet) a friend whom I can pick up the phone to call for further motivation. Her words are irreplaceable, but they aren't infinite. In the moments when I hear myself echoing the fears of my students, I've noticed something pretty cool happening. I'm responding to my own negative self talk as I would respond to a student:

"I can't do this."

Yes you can. In fact, you are doing it. Writing is a process. Take it one word at a time.

"I'm not good enough."

Even if you never share your writing, this experience will serve you as both a writer and a person. If you do choose to share your writing, I promise you there is someone out there who will resonate with your words. If you don't, you'll still be able to say you wrote a book. That's pretty cool.

"Why does this story even matter?"

Because it has never been written before, and there's someone out there who needs to hear it. 

"What if nobody likes it?"

    

Stay in the present. Focus on the chapter, paragraph, sentence, word at hand. Forget about the end product, and forget about what anyone else may think of it. This experience is for you, not for anyone else. Worry about publication once you have a manuscript and, even then, only if you want to.

"Maybe I'm actually a terrible writer and no one has told me yet."

Writing is an art, and art is subjective. There may be people who think you're awful, but there may also be people who are forever changed by your words. Focus on the latter.

"I'm never going to finish this."  

Accept every step of the process as progress. Today, you may spend an hour revising past work. Tomorrow, you may write ten new pages. Both days are equally as important. Both get you one step closer to your goal. 

I'm only one teacher, one writer, and I know that I absolutely do not have all the answers. I'm sure our girl Anne would say the same. Thanks to my students, however, I do know that I can do this. I know I can because I've watched my students go from tearful conferences at my desk to pieces that were so moving that they have stuck with me for years. I've sat beside students who were so frustrated by their experience that they debated turning in the shittiest of first drafts just to be able to say they finished, but pushed through and displayed their pride by asking "have you read it yet?" for days until I do.

Over the course of the past 6 years, hundreds of teenagers have put their trust in me to guide them through the emotional task of completing a processed piece. Not every student resonated with my words or even needed my help, but if my words were enough for so many students for so many years, why shouldn't they be good enough for myself now? If my students could push through their complex emotions in the middle of a 7 hour school day packed with 6 other demanding courses, hormones, and ongoing personal struggles all while being confined to a single building with limited sunlight, why can't I do the same now? Why shouldn't I believe in myself the way I believed in my students?

When the day came to share with my classes that I would be moving, I knew it was going to be an emotional one. I had warned my husband and closest colleagues that it was coming so they could be ready to embrace me in the midst of my sorrow throughout the day. While each class took their time adjusting to the news that they wouldn't be seeing me throughout the halls the following year, the same question inevitably arose -- they wondered if I would be teaching in my new home. I dreaded this question for a multitude of reasons that ultimately boil down to one systemic issue: there is an immense amount of guilt and shame that comes with leaving teaching (I'll write more on that later, I'm sure). I was terrified of letting my students down, and I didn't want them to take the switch personally. 

I had fully anticipated the reactions of tears and shock that the day brought, but I couldn't have predicted the level of emotional maturity that my students displayed when I revealed that, no, I wouldn't be teaching, I would be writing a book. Rather than hurling the resentment and anger-filled insults that I had catastrophized in my worst fears, my students were absolutely thrilled for me. They wanted to know every detail: What was my book about? Did I have a title yet? When would it be on sale? Can they get a sneak preview? Did I need help coming up with ideas? Would I sign their copy when it arrives? The genuine interest and support was overwhelming. More tears ensued -- happy ones this time.

There wasn't a hint of judgment or doubt from any of my classes. They were already my biggest fans and I hadn't yet written a word. This time, during one of my own periods of self doubt, my students were the ones reminding me that we are in it together. That writing is community based no matter how isolating it can become, and that they would be supporting me from halfway across the country. The memory of that day along with Anne's timeless wisdom and my own teacher catchphrases are what pull me through the deepest of insecurities about my writing. My anxious mind can prattle on all it wants about potential failures, but I know that I have my safety net. I know that I can produce genuinely shitty writing and polish it up later. I also know that I can write beautiful lines on the first try. Regardless of how it takes shape, I find peace in knowing that there is a group of 100+ teenagers in Ohio who are anxiously awaiting the release of a book that currently only exists as word vomit on a Google Doc and images in my mind. For now, that knowledge alone is enough to push my doubts aside and keep writing.