In the last post, I suggested that when confronted with a rejection (or any obstacle) so destabilizing that it calls everything into question, it might be wise to take a moment and reconnect with your Driving Whys. And not simply in some cursory, “tick the box” fashion, but in a way that requires you to fundamentally reexamine whether or not the goals you set still make sense for where you are today.
In the space between my last post and this one, I’ve spent hours (and a few sleepless nights) revisiting my own Driving Whys—going back in time and reflecting on what it was that made telling this story (and getting it out in the world) feel less like something I wanted to do, and more like a calling I couldn’t ignore.
My own reflections have spirited me back to coastal Ireland where years ago, after concluding a business deal in the States, I had gone in search of myself against a backdrop of solitude, peat fires and long walks on unspoiled, country roads. It was late winter, and I was on the spectacularly glorious Sky Road finishing something that can only loosely be referred to as a run, and heading back into Clifden where I had rented a lovely little townhome.
I was probably a mile or two out of town and had slowed to a walk when quite suddenly this story appeared to me in full and sweeping cinematic form. I remember that exact moment with such pristine and resonant clarity, because in that instant I knew exactly who my characters were. I could imagine their joys and their disappointments, could anticipate the parts of themselves they kept hidden, could feel their grief as intimately as I felt my own. Inspired by my mother-in-law’s stories of Nazi-occupied France, I’d been toying with a version of this idea for quite a while, but there on this quiet stretch of road it morphed into something different—something bigger and entirely my own. And I knew then I had no choice but to try and put the story into words.
There was only one teeny, tiny little problem. I had neither the skill nor experience to know where or how to begin.
But I did begin. And even though my early efforts produced absolute sophomoric twaddle that has long since gone the way of the delete key, what mattered more than the output—at least then—was that for the first time in my life, I was finally following my heart.
For the next several years, I didn’t so much as write, as “tried” to write. I would start and then, after spending many fruitless hours hunched over the keyboard producing some pretty dreadful stuff, I would crumple under the weight of self-doubt and wonder why I was so hellbent on doing something I obviously had no demonstrable talent for. And then, as the cycle went (and it went this way for years) I would once again decide (this time for good!) to abandon this foolish writing thing and move on. But as it turned out those characters of mine had minds of their own and refused to let me be, nagging at me constantly to buck up, try harder and stop being such a wimp.
And so, I did try harder. I tried really hard. I read every book on writing I could lay my hands on, starting with Anne Lamott’s iconic Bird by Bird which introduced me to the concept of “shitty first drafts,” paving the way for me to have a little more self-compassion for having produced one of my own. I read Stephen King’s wonderful memoir On Writing, Elizabeth Gilbert’s, Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear, and had her brilliant 2009 Ted Talk playing on repeat. My ex-husband gave me a copy of George Higgins’ book on writing—a poignant act of loving support as the “journey to myself” had begun with the painful decision to leave my marriage and my Santa Barbara home.
I stuck with it, following Gladwell’s 10k hour advice—and then some. What I lacked in talent, I made up for in discipline and grit. And eventually, after many more determined hours at the keyboard, I managed to teach myself to write. Several drafts and a few years later, I knew I had finally done the story justice when my annoyingly persistent characters began to leave me alone.
And as good as that all is—and as legitimately proud as I am of the product I’ve managed to create—I’ve come to understand that the book itself isn’t what matters the most. This has never been about the writing—not really—or even this story I’ve been so compelled to tell. Had it been, I likely would have thrown in the towel many years ago. From the beginning, (even though I couldn’t see it at the time), this has always been about something more urgent and vital than any of that: At its most essential, this journey has been an act of personal salvation. A dark night of the soul exploration in which, through the expression of my characters’ heartache and grief, I’ve begun to heal myself and in doing so, have finally found my voice.
So then, that gets me back to the beginning of this post: Does this goal I’ve set—to relentlessly pursue a conventional publishing deal—still make sense for where I am today? Or, in finding my voice, have I already accomplished something far more crucial than what I initially set out to do?
I don’t think the answer falls neatly into one side of the ledger or the other—it manages to straddle the two. And so—at least for now—I will continue pressing on because while finding my voice has been a beautiful, life-altering thing, I can’t help but wonder if it will ever seem like enough if no one else can hear me sing?
4 Rejections down, 96 to go.
If any of this post resonates, please feel free to comment, like and share.
On Writing and Finding Your Voice
Sometimes the end game morphs into something we did not see coming. I've decided with most of my creative endeavors to not start with an end goal in mind, but rather just enjoying the process. It's like instead of forcing the characters in your story down a certain path you let me lead you.
Now with learning the cello, after nine months, an end game is slowly developing in my mind. I found this quite useful so I don't feel the pressure to complete a goal that is very often going to be totally out of my control.