Writing: Not Your Normal New Year's Resolution

Thoughts come into my head at all times of the day and night. Thoughts for short stories, personal stories, character sketches, and novels. Many I ignore. Others, I jot down in a notebook. Some I even begin. I have an iphone full of notes. Ideas I have written at 3am when insomnia gets the best of me. Ideas I have jotted down while making Lu breakfast. Ideas that come to me while running, while gathering wood, while sitting in front of the TV. It seems my brain is an endless producer of ideas. Unfortunately, my brain loves to produce ideas but lately lacks the capacity to finish them. Ironically, this lack of follow through was brought to my attention this afternoon while, once again, jotting down the beginning of an idea. One paragraph into my story and the creativity cord was cut. Thus, I decided to save a draft, in order to further think about the direction I would like this vignette to take, when I noticed the "Writing" folder to which I was saving my work contained more than one or two unfinished documents. These numerous unfinished pieces naturally led my brain to ask a host of questions. The most important one being, "Why don't I finish any of my writing?"

The normal excuses, of course, were the first to fly to the forefront of my mind...I have a three year old who does not afford me much time to write or much time to have a complete thought of my own. Hell most days I am happy to just get five minutes without Lucy's voice drowning out my own...The few moments I do get to myself are usually spent doing laundry, trying to keep the house in some pathetic semblance of order, or trying to stay connected to my friends around the country through Facebook or email...Some days and nights, I am just too damn tired to even attempt to put two coherent thoughts together.  Each of these reasons, while true, does not, however, truly touch on the real reasons my writing never progresses past the brain storming phase. Because really, there are plenty of writers out there with children who manage to produce finished pieces. There are women out there crafting it up, blogging it up, and being involved in a host of other activities, all while raising their children. Now mind you, I hardly think their children have the same, shall we say, tenacity and loquaciousness of my child (those who know her would not argue with me on these two points), but regardless...I should be more invested in my writing, or should I say finishing my writing. So why aren't I?

The answer, minus the excuses, is both simple and complex. Simple because it involves but one factor, confidence. Complex because that simple factor is multi-faceted.

As many of you know, I am seemingly a relatively confident individual, in the sense that I am secure in who I am, fairly happy with myself (minus a couple of character flaws), and do not apologize for being me by trying to change myself for others. However, I am also deathly afraid of negative criticism, shy away from exposing my true vulnerability, and do not have an inflated sense of my importance in the world. Three facets, which have prevented me from finishing much of my writing, and probably prevented me from having a truly successful professional career.

No one likes negative criticism. In fact, even the constructive criticism so popular in business and education is, most of the time, simply a means of negative criticism. I, however, literally have anxiety when thinking of criticism of any sort. Whether that criticism be directed at my hair/clothing/makeup, my running, my teaching skills, or my writing, criticism produces in me a negative physical reaction...nausea. I dislike criticism not because I believe I am undeserving, but because I am a constant subject of criticism...my own. No one can be, or is, harder on me than me. Therefore, heaping external criticism on top of my self criticism is like watching myself doubly fail. Writing, especially for publication, is opening oneself to a host of criticism. Criticism that by itself might drive me to try harder, do better, be better, but heaped on top of my self criticism is, most days, crippling.

The greatest pieces of writing, art, or music are those that not only expose the frailty of humanity and society but also those which expose the frailty of the artist. Writing is a deeply personal act. A writer must be willing to expose his/her most vulnerable moments, thoughts, relationships, and feelings; but if this were not enough a writer must then entrust his/her readers to carefully handle those vulnerabilities, to own those vulnerabilities as their own. I do neither well; expose my vulnerabilities, that is, nor trust people, especially complete strangers. I suppose my lack of trust in people comes from being hurt too many times when I have exposed those vulnerabilities. Whether I have been hurt from harsh criticism, a lack of emotional regard for the sensitivities I am exposing, or by individuals using my vulnerabilities against me...all have led to an unwillingness to share the bits of me I expose in my writing, even the unfinished bits.

To write is one thing, to publish is another. I write for personal pleasure. However, why write if not to share one's writing? However, sharing my writing would imply that I believe I have something important to share, something worth reading, something enjoyable or pleasurable, funny, heartbreaking, or stirring. Something people will want to read, share, and cherish. Even something special enough that people will want to criticize it. Unfortunately, I don't feel that my story or the stories I write are especially unique or interesting. I grew up in a middle class town, in a middle class neighborhood. Though I have had experiences that many have not, there are simply others that have had far more wild adventures than I. Others have had greater heartbreaks, greater successes. I do not have an inflated sense of my place in the world. I am in my own way quirky, but not necessarily memorable. The people I have met are quirky and yes, some are very memorable. Many I have included in character sketches. But are they memorable enough, bizarre enough for the world to want to read about them? Are my stories so? I'm not sure. Thus I sit with a handful of beginnings...and vow that before the year ends so too will one piece of writing.