Don’t Let This Be You

Note: I just posted this in a fiction course I’m teaching for UCLA Extension. I hate to be self-serving, particularly when it won’t directly boost sales of my book, but I do think some of this might also be to some value to someone, somewhere, who’s not in my class — or who’s not even interested in writing. God knows I’ve said similar words to my kids, and god knows I’ve had them said to me many times over the years. Enjoy.

This is the fifth course I’m teaching for the Writers’ Program. Every time I do this, the first week goes by and I notice one or two people aren’t participating in the Discussion Boards. Sometimes, they’ll show up and introduce themselves…and then won’t submit any work or comment on the work of others. Sometimes they’ll actually submit something, and then we won’t hear from them again.

In both cases, I know what’s up: They’re either nervous about being in a writing class, or they suddenly realize they don’t actually want feedback on something they’ve written. Both things spring from a fear of powerlessness, which a psychologist I know claims is the driving fear behind 99% of poorly made human decisions. That feeling of powerlessness is godawful. It is very much an infection of the soul, whether one believes in churchy-variety souls or not.

One of the great things about an online writing class is that you’re anonymous. You have the freedom to say things you might withhold in a real-world workshop. You can be more yourself than when you’re in a physical group of people. One of the bad things about an online writing class is that you’re anonymous. If you don’t speak up, no one will come looking for you. You can fade into the background with no fear of someone suddenly looking over and noticing you.

Sometimes we can believe we are a fantastic writer, and fuck anyone who doesn’t “get it” when reading our stuff. Then we glance through the feedback someone has written us and certain phrases — “don’t see this happening” “underdeveloped” “ending feels unearned” — rush out and stab us in the heart. The real pain there is an instant of total awareness (Maybe this isn’t 100% finished, maybe it’s not 100% good), followed by the defense mechanisms that swarm in to numb it. Fuck them, fuck this class, they just don’t get it.

Try to resist this thinking. It is a fear of powerlessness that is both a part of writing, and its greatest enemy. You do not have 100% command of your material, you have zero control over how people will experience it. I know people who went all the way through MFA programs, had enormous promise, and have not shown anyone else a word since. The experience of showing their work, and having it returned to them with questions and suggestions instead of gold stars and kiss-marks, was wounding for them. And what happens to a wound when it’s not treated properly? It forms a scar.

Don’t let this be you. Don’t be the person who wants to write better but doesn’t really want to learn how to write better.  I wasted my twenties being like this, and that is a decade I will never get back, no matter how many tight pairs of H&M jeans I buy. Don’t be the person who scoffs at others for being bare and honest. You get nothing of value in this life without asking for it. Sometimes we ask with our words, but sometimes we ask with our actions. Signing up for a writing class is asking for guidance, for a chance at improvement. Posting your work is asking for this in an even more specific manner. What you get in return, whatever it may be (and it will almost never look the way you expected it to), is a gift. Don’t then slap that gift out of the giver’s hands and run in the other direction. Accept the gift, whatever form it may take, and then ask for more. “Please, sir, may I have another?”

The world is full-up with cowardly people. When you lie to someone, when you avoid the questioning glance of a friend, when you beep at someone to go faster when you know you should have left the house earlier, you are being a coward. Don’t be one in here, and don’t be one with your writing. It will never get better until you open up a little, both to your own abilities and to the reactions of others. That is a promise, and possibly the only immutable truth about writing.

Now let’s do this.

XO,

Matt