Bad Writer Era
Malcolm Gladwell talks about how you have to do something for 10,000 hours before you get good at it. I’m definitely not a strict rule follower, but I can’t argue with the fact that you’re often not good at something when you first start out. When a kid says they’re bad at something they’ve never done before, my response is “Great! You’re supposed to be bad in the beginning.”
Simple logic to share with a kiddo. Harder to accept as an adult doing something new and vulnerable. And terrifying.
But here’s what I know is true.
I want to write.
Cue the nausea, shame-spiral, and “just kidding!!” following up.
Part of me is utterly shocked by these thoughts. Blindsided by this discovery. Another part (who happens to be a bit more connected to the reality of the past few years) is unphased by this “revelation”.
The unsurprised part reminds me of my 33rd birthday. I was in the throes of a divorce from my favorite person. My world flipped upside down. And I was the one “wrecking” it.
I knew it was going to be a tough year ahead. Formerly a pretty intense dissociator, I wasn’t confident I would remember much of anything. And I wanted to. Even the terrible stuff. I wanted to remember my life. So I decided I would write every day for one year.
April 3, 2020 -April 3, 2021
I committed to myself that I would journal every single day.
And I did. Although, to be fair, there were a few entries that resembled a reluctant 10th grader sarcastically turning in an assignment.
September 13, 2020: This is my journal entry for the day. There, I did it. I wrote for the day. Are you happy now?
In the midst of my year of journaling, I experienced the greatest loss and upheaval my life had seen. A dark night of the soul turned spiritual awakening. And each day was captured on paper.
Reality questioning, letters, existential ponderings, mushroom wisdom, quotes, daily accounts, and a dash of gratitude at times.
It was all there on the pages. I was committed to remember it all. I passed the year mark and kept writing. Not always as consistent. But often.
Then, I found myself at a writing retreat. (That’s odd, how did I get here?) In my grief I had connected deeply with an author’s story and she was going to be teaching at this retreat. So I signed up. And took a ferry ride to the San Juan Islands of Washington state. I was surrounded by real writers for five days. And I stuck to my introduction script the entire time.
“Oh, I’m not a writer. I’m a therapist. I’m just here to meet Claire.”
That was the story I needed to believe. And it definitely felt true when everyone else spoke in literary shorthand and I had to secretly google the word “prose” so I could pretend to track the conversations.
But I did meet Claire. And she offered an exercise for finding your writing voice. Specifically, she had us write the same story in First Person, Second Person, and Third Person. Since I had no preconceived notions of how this would go, I can’t say I was surprised by the results. But there was definitely a clear “winner”. I discovered it was WAY easier for me to write in Second Person.
Then, over the next four months, I wrote a book.
I convinced myself it was okay to write the book because I gave myself permission to never share it with anyone. I needed the “book” structure to help me process the grief and trauma differently than journaling. The Second Person structure gave me the distance I needed and space for my self-deprecating part to shine.
Mission Accomplished. On July 24, 2022, I finished the last page of the book and promptly put it aside. I told myself I wouldn’t even look at it for a few months.
Life happened. And then, happened again. And again.
My writing started to look different. Less writing about my life and more about a new therapeutic model I’d been creating. The writing itself evolved and my relationship with writing deepened. I could feel myself being pulled. I wanted more. But it didn’t (doesn’t) make logical sense.
And I’m okay with that.
Because I want to write. I want to be a writer.
So, I’m allowing myself to be bad. Reminding myself I’m SUPPOSED to be bad. I’m a beginner.
I’m embracing my Bad Writer Era.
With Curiosity,
