Self-Confidence & What It Takes

173}IDENTITY CRISIS: THE WRITE STUFF

A student asks me, “Have I got what it takes to really be a writer? Will I succeed?” Confronted with similar questions, another writing teacher I know would tell his students, “Probably not.” Those who didn’t accept the verdict had “what it takes.”

My response is different and depends on how one defines success. Publication, fortune, fame, rave reviews—all of the above? Do we measure our success based on the evaluations of others, or on our own? Does growth count, or only results? What’s more important, the work we did yesterday or today, or the work we’ll do tomorrow?

Here’s what I believe: Every hour you spend at your writing, you leave the desk a better writer than when you started. If I didn’t believe that, I’d quit myself. If I thought worldly success is all that matters, I’d die of despair.

I measure success according to where I’ve come from, and how far I’ve come, and what I’ve managed to do given my humble origins. Do I want worldly success? Sure. Do I crave and yearn for it? Not so much anymore. Will I kill myself if I don’t get it? Certainly not. If every day (or every other day) I can say to myself, “You’ve done your best and you’re getting better,” then that’s enough for me to justify my existence.

I say write not to “succeed,” but to improve. And you will.

And you’ll publish. Though it will take time and—let’s face it—some luck.

How long will it take? If the answer turned out to be the rest of your life, would you quit? Or would you roll up your sleeves and keep working? As long as you’re willing, that’s how long.

Since a writer is someone who writes, the better question is not, “Have I got what it takes to be a writer?” but “Have I got what it takes to write?”

174}THE SPACES BETWEEN WORDS:
WHEN WE’RE NOT WRITING

And when you’re not writing, then what are you? Then you’re whatever else you happen to be doing.

You’re a reader, a mother, a sales rep, a stockbroker, a lawyer, a daydreamer, a butterfly collector, a nuclear physicist, a lap swimmer, a jewel thief. But even when engaged in other activities, the writer is often still writing: She’s still thinking in words, forming sentences, smoothing out lumps in a story line, devising a plot twist, sharpening a simile or metaphor. Not all writing has to take place in front of a computer or a yellow pad. Nor is all writing a conscious or deliberate act. Much of it happens when we’re least aware of it, behind our backs.61

They tell us matter cannot be created or destroyed. We can’t write what we haven’t in some way experienced, directly or indirectly, in fact or in fancy. A writer who never leaves her word processor will eventually run out of things to say; the well will go dry. A writer isn’t only allowed to do other things; doing them is obligatory.

Knowing when not to write is as much a part of the writer’s regimen as applying the seat of your pants to the seat of the chair.

As for what else it takes to write, I refer you back to Matters of Soul.