First Draft Issue #2: Who cares?

Hi friends,

I think of myself as a fiction writer. Full stop. But with my debut novel coming out in less than six months, I’ve had to challenge myself to step out of that comfort zone in order to write a personal essay for my publisher about what inspired the book and an op-ed on a topic related to it. My first paralyzing thought, before I even sat down to attempt either, was, “Who cares?”

This wasn’t my familiar imposter syndrome. I’ve been writing for long enough that I feel mostly comfortable calling myself a writer. But it was a particular subset of it, a feeling that no one would care what I, Jen, have to say—that I’m not queer or genderqueer enough (my book is about both), not well-known enough, smart enough, qualified enough, and the list goes on.

So I decided to devote some time to exploring this pernicious problem with you. To be clear, I believe it’s an important and valid exercise to write strictly for oneself. Not everything is meant to be published; nor should it all be. But that’s a topic for another day. The thing I’m interested in here is what holds us back when we’re writing with the goal to publish. I have no expertise in this, mind you, but perhaps facing it together is one way for all of us to begin, or continue, to find a way through the roadblock.

Years ago, when I sat down to write my first short story, I’d already been writing for most of my life—in my journal, in handmade artist’s books, even for a film—but I’d never considered myself a writer because I hadn’t published anything in the traditional sense. Yet I was inching toward forty and I was a parent of a young child, and I felt an urgency to take my creative life more seriously.

So I made a conscious decision to allow myself to fail. I would write my heart out and then share my work with people who knew what they were doing so that I could learn from them and get better. And that’s exactly what I did. I made tons of mistakes and wrote plenty of pretty bad things, and now, about a decade later, I’m preparing for the launch of my debut novel.

When I sensed how scared I was to write these nonfiction pieces for my editor, I tried to reclaim some of that fearless energy, but the idea of nonfiction was just too daunting. With fiction, if I failed, I could blame it on craft or, like so many rejections I’ve received, I could claim that my readers simply didn’t connect with the voice. But with nonfiction, the fear was deeper and more personal. Why would anyone care what I think?

So how did I get past it and write?

The first question I asked myself was, Why did I care? Why did I care enough to write a whole novel? I’ve always been anxious that I’m not queer or genderqueer enough to come out so publicly, but in the end that was the whole point. If I was afraid of these things, then surely there were other people who were too. And maybe they would find something like relief or joy to see themselves represented on the page—fictional or not.

But the doubt lingered. So I posed another question: Who’s voice was it telling me that no one will care? In addition to a host of personal answers that are also better fit for another essay, there was one big answer I kept coming back to: as someone who inhabits a female body, I’ve grown accustomed to supporting the creative and intellectual work of other, mostly male or male-presenting, people. For most of my adult life, I did my own creative work in the background, for my own enrichment, content not to share it on a large scale, even as I worked in publishing to bring other people’s writing into the world and in book conservation to ensure the longevity of other people’s artistry. I'd internalized the belief that their work mattered enough. So, if that was true, then why not mine?

Still the doubt persisted. Wouldn’t people think I was just trying to get attention? This was the biggest hurdle of all because it told me I was selfish and egocentric. It took a lot of reflection to come around to the admission that maybe it was true, and even okay. I do want attention. But in this case, what I want attention for is an issue I care deeply about. I want to add my voice to the others who are standing up for justice for the LGBTQ+ community. And that feels like a worthy goal.

In the end, what I've come to believe is that the point is not to be the smartest or most qualified or most eloquent or most revered voice, but to be one of many. To enter a conversation. Because that’s what publishing or exhibiting or performing is—an exchange of ideas, a give and take. Sometimes we listen and sometimes we participate. And if only one person hears or cares about what we have to say, then we’ve had an impact on the conversation. And if no one does, then we pack our gear, move on, and try again based on what we've learned.

The truth is that we may never know what kind of impact our words have because people don’t always tell us—even though Amazon and Goodreads would make it seem otherwise!

So what is your reason? What is it that you care about so much that you want to draw the world's attention to it? Whether it's motivated by social justice or curiosity or love or heartbreak, there is something, after all, that compels you to write—to wake up too early in the morning or squeeze fifteen minutes in your car while your kid is playing soccer or stay up later than you should.

And what is that voice that’s sowing doubt? Is it telling the truth, or is it telling you an old story that’s no longer serving you?

I’ll leave you with one final thought. In the words of Pema Chodron from her wonderful book The Wisdom of No Escape, “We have a share in whatever everyone else has and is. Our journey of making friends with our ourselves is not a selfish thing. We’re not trying to get all the goodies for ourselves. It’s a process of developing loving-kindness and a true understanding for other people as well.”

What can you do today to make better friends with your self-doubt? To find a place for your voice in the conversation—for yourself but also for others?

I can't wait to find out.

Yours,

Jen

P.S. You can learn more about my debut novel Endpapers and find preorder links here. Or, better yet, preorder it from Buffalo Street Books or your local indie!