Ride The Wave

I rarely find myself with sweaty palms these days…except when I share my writing. I’ve posted and published so much over the last decade, you’d think exposure alone would seal this last fount of my social anxiety.

But, no.

As my finger hovers over the send or submit button, my hands are damp and shaky, every time.

[Even now]

Another writer asked me a question, basically, “How do we know our writing is good enough to be published? What if we share it with people and it actually sucks?”

That’s the question of the social media century. We think our work is good, but we question ourselves, and what if we offend or hurt someone, what if we seem uninformed and out-of-touch or, horror of horrors, basic or boring. What if we’re just not that good?

How I wish I’d never heard the words, Imposter Syndrome. One more thing to worry about. One more thing to make my palms sweat.

I told him, of course, you can’t know. You can do all the things, but Gram was right. You can’t please all the people all the time, dear. There will always be people who hate your writing, and there will always be people who love it (and not just your grandma, you’ll be surprised.)

But that’s not really what he, or any of us, are asking. We’re not even asking if our writing is good enough to snag an agent or publishing contract, to win awards, make us rich and famous.

The truth is, we want to know if we are good enough in the existential sense. Good enough that we can say we’re writers and believe it really is our calling. Good enough to make a difference. Good enough, even people who don’t love us will find our writing helpful, or compelling, or entertaining, or useful or (please, God) profound and life-changing. Good enough to stop doubting it’s worth all the time and effort and lost wages and vulnerability and sweaty palms.

And that, my friends, we may never know. We might join those who only received wide-spread recognition after their deaths: Kafka, Dickinson, Keats, Melville, Poe… If we’re lucky, if we’re really gifted. And the rest of us? Well…

Truth is, we’ll never know the full impact of our writing for good or ill this side of eternity, and I’m pretty sure we won’t care on the flip side.

All we can know is that writers write. So we set our worries aside (or in spite of them) and keep showing up. We watch carefully, stay curious, dig deep, take new risks every day. When our creations are as ready as they’ll ever be, though still deeply flawed, we know…

Well then, we wipe our palms, boldly present our offering to the world and maybe something true will come of all this.

While everyone around us holds their breath, slowly suffocating, waiting for rescue, we are compelled to perform resuscitation. We dare to inhale the tragicomic beauty of the life we’re in together and, breath by breath, exhale words that transform and renew this perplexing human condition. Then, for some sweet moment, we can all stop treading water and ride the wave together.

We can’t please all the people all the time, but we’ll save as many as we can. We’ll keep the faith and we won’t lose hope.

As we type, type, type and whisper…

Let the words of my mouth

The meditations of my heart

Be acceptable…

Views expressed are not necessarily those of all members of ICW.