When I first started writing for The Michigan Daily, I didn’t tell anyone. When I had meetings, I vaguely referred to them as being “for a club I’m in,” and any writing was just “some homework I have to do.” My eyes would shift around the room like I was concealing a secret, and I’m sure my friends were convinced I had gotten mixed up in some shady business. Despite being close with her, my mom didn’t know until she stumbled on one of my pieces, even reading the entire thing before seeing my name. I spent my first months as a writer moving quietly around like a ghost, afraid of being noticed. I wasn’t embarrassed by The Daily; I was haunted by the idea that people might actually read my writing.
This might sound ridiculous for someone knowingly publishing their work. But I’m comfortable with releasing my pieces out into the faceless, unknown public. My nightmare was more along the lines of someone I know reading my writing and then sending it to everyone else I know so they could all laugh at it together. I can’t help but be irrational. More realistically, I am afraid my writing will be disappointing.
I’ve always liked my English classes, but I had never written a creative piece for school until a personal essay in ninth grade. Academic writing was easier for me, more formulaic, like building legos. I was scared but interested in trying something new — I could take this leap. Equipped with a few instructions from my teacher, I ironically wrote about the harm of perfectionism in my life. I wasn’t proud of it. The vision in my head didn’t transfer to my clumsy writing. Then, I received my lowest grade in the class so far. My teacher’s biggest criticism was, “You need to develop your own voice in your writing.” As I continued to struggle and strive for praise from my English teachers — all in vain — this comment echoed in my head, becoming warped and twisted by the caverns of my mind.
“You need to develop your own voice when writing” became
“You don’t have your own voice in your writing,” then
“Your writing isn’t good enough.”
I didn’t fool my English teachers. I was never one of their proteges. As a chronic overachiever in school, not being naturally good at something was a hard pill to swallow. Despite receiving praise in other subjects, I continued to get criticized for the lack of voice in my writing, making me retreat further into my shell. I became afraid to write. I fed off the praise of others but was left starving when I couldn’t find it. I hesitated to join The Daily, too scared that I would never be good enough.
I’m careful about the wording — it’s always, “I write for The Daily,” and never “I’m a writer,” because I didn’t think I was. “Writer” has always had some connotations I’m uncomfortable with; it implies that you’re good at writing. I don’t want people to assume that I am. Instead, I hide behind a wall of self-deprecation, telling people that I only do it for fun and that I don’t think I’m very talented. For every piece I write, I warn my editors that “I’m not super proud of it” and jokingly (or not-so-jokingly) tell my friends never to read it, handing my work over like an old bag of garbage. It got to the point where that point of view wasn’t sustainable anymore — I had to let myself accept my shortcomings or stop writing altogether.
I had to allow myself to realize that my biggest mistake wasn’t any bad writing, but rather thinking that I was a failure because my writing was imperfect.
We look at all of the talented people around us and are convinced that everything we release into the world has to be great. Imposter syndrome can be crippling; it can convince us nothing we create is ever enough. Unfortunately, I can’t produce a new magnum opus every few weeks, and I often struggle to be proud even of the pieces I’ve worked the hardest on.
Franz Kafka burned around 90% of his work during his life. I’d do the same thing if most of my work wasn’t digital. So it’s probably a good thing I can’t. Kafka is a reminder that even those who are drawn to writing may hate their own work and that sometimes writing is an internal fight. It’s also a warning — that self-doubt has caused great writers to destroy their own works is proof of its damaging potential.
Working for The Daily has pushed me to write more than I would otherwise, and I can see myself getting better. Writing doesn’t come naturally to me, and I often have to wrestle with myself to get the words out. I’m not a perfect writer, but we don’t have to be perfect at the things we love. Doing something for the sake of enjoying it is reason enough despite the responsibility we may feel to be good at everything.
I especially struggle to write about my personal experiences. The narration gets messy and weird (and maybe I still sound like a boring, voiceless academic), but I try anyway. Some of us want to write but are too scared to do it. Self-doubt creeps into our heads and silences us, whispering in our ears about the potential of embarrassment or failure by our own too-high standards. It’s worth remembering that art is subjective, and it’s worth it to embrace both good and bad instead of destroying pieces of ourselves in pursuit of an arbitrary ideal. It’s OK to be bad at things and love them anyway. We’re all writers, musicians and artists to some extent.
I used to think I wasn’t a writer, but I wrote anyway.
Daily Arts Writer Isabelle Perraut can be reached at iperraut@umich.edu.
The post I wasn’t a writer appeared first on The Michigan Daily.
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