Tag Archives: writing

Does anyone really know what they are doing?

Another long break in this space. Offline of this blog, I did, in fact, keep writing, although not every day.

I continued the Writer’s Challenge for two cycles, and ultimately decided it wasn’t for me. My goal was to put my writing out there for useful, meaningful feedback. But what I really needed was feedback from writers I could trust…not necessarily other writers like me! In the end, the ROI just wasn’t there for the time spent on my end.

In an effort to force myself back into a state of challenge and risk, I did an experiment earlier this year where I painted daily for one month, and wrote a poem for each painting, then published the entire thing on an instagram account.

It was humbling. It was scary. Because I want to be good. Really, really good. People who love me think I am good (as one does, if you love someone). It’s not ego that drive the desire to be excellent, truly. I just don’t want to answer Mary Oliver’s question about my one wild and precious life with waste. If there is a better way or medium for me to examine my thoughts, wrestle with the questions that refuse to scatter when I shoo them away, pour out this fullness of color and concept and love and grief that springs up in me all the time…I want to find it. I want to do it.

But if I’m being completely honest, I don’t know what I’m doing. I really don’t. Sometimes, in any part of my life. What a relief when someone put a name to “imposter syndrome” because man, does that capture my feelings to a T. It is completely irrational, which is what makes it so difficult to battle. I can logically list out my skills and abilities, the mastery of which have led to success in multiple settings and to varying degrees. But the whisper creeps in…did I really know what I was doing, or did I get lucky? Do I have everyone fooled? And when that ends…what then?

If I sit in the morning stillness and think, who am I at this moment, it is likely I will feel a youthful inadequacy that clearly does not match up with my age. My husband had a business partner who, when asked his age, would answer, “chronological or biological?” His physical and mental health (biological) belied his age (chronological). I often feel a complete disconnect between my chronological and biological selves. Sometimes that is a good divide, as I tend to have an optimistic viewpoint that refuses to let chronology determine how life unfolds. Other times, it feeds that feeling of inadequacy. I’ve been a “fake it ’til you make it” lady for the better part of 30 years, but at what point do you call it – “I made it!” – and lay that down?

I have a deep internal faith and relationship that I don’t like to explicitly put out into the general world. It is too real, meaningful, grace-driven, love-based to open up to the great internet masses; for me, it is best shared on a personal basis rather than thrown out for the wolves to attack. But that faith includes an understanding of my value to One who created me, exactly me, as I am. A verse that comes to mind for me in a regular cadence is “…taking every thought captive in obedience to Christ” (2 Cor 10:5). If I feel – know – that I was created, individually and specifically, then thoughts that push back against my value have to be taken captive.

Genuine assessment that results in honest conclusion that you actually don’t know what you are doing is fair, wise, and part of an examined life (because no, not everyone can know how to do everything). There are many, many people doing damage everyday because they refuse to conduct such an assessment (or don’t have the courage, intelligence, or encouragement to do so). But I think of how many of us there are, walking through our days allowing that insidious whisper of “you don’t know what you are doing” to dull the colors of our contributions to our communities in our homes, workplaces, schools, relationships.

However, there’s another part of me that hears that whisper, comes to a standstill, and then says…so? So what if I don’t know what I’m doing? Does anybody know what they are doing? Is the measure of life well spent really based on achieving expertise or success? Or is the miracle and beauty of life BEING and DOING?

When I’m brave, I see clearly that the whisper is a lie – not that I actually do know what I’m doing, but a lie that having it figured out and buttoned up and foolproof means absolutely anything. If I want to write, or paint, or create, I should do it. I should just do it. And how anyone else feels about that is completely irrelevant.

I recently found proof of this when going through several boxes of memories and unearthed a poem I wrote, more than 30 years ago. I don’t remember but can only imagine the level of courage I summoned to write and gift this to my then boyfriend, now husband. In rereading it, I am amazed at prescient it was. There was no way for me to know this, and yet, something in me felt it and put it to paper with hope. So I leave this rambling, inconclusive post with this:

Untitled, 1994

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What is good writing, really?

DAY NINE.

I wrote earlier about participating in a Writing Battle, suggesting that I might post that short story in support of the accountability I am seeking in this exercise. As it turns out, the rules do prohibit that. I characterize myself generally as a rule-follower, for a few reasons. The reason most people don’t know about? A theory, tested and supported over years.

Anarchists (to a greater or lesser degree) by definition defy all rules and thus, society tends to dismiss them or compartmentalize them away from credibility or acceptance. However, when a rule-follower challenges or breaks a rule, people snap to attention. Disrupting the status quo selectively can be a strategic tool for change. Without the identity of breaking-rules-because-I-can, the rule-follower often wields greater power simply by being taken more seriously.

In this instance, I see no compelling reason to break the Writing Battle’s rule, so know that I will post that story when the full Battle is complete and I have permission to do so. However, I’ve been faced with an interesting, additional challenge from the Writing Battle. As participants, we also serve as judges in “story duels.” We are provided two stories, from a different genre than the writing prompt we followed, and are tasked with giving thoughtful feedback to both and selecting a “winner” between the two.

This is hard!

I had no idea how hard this would be.

It doesn’t help that the genre I am “judging” is probably one of my least favorite types of literature or storytelling. I will read anything, and do (I’ve only ever stopped and thrown away, literally trashed, one book in my entire life – it was so badly written as to be virtually unreadable). I exist as a reader with virtually no standards, seeking to enjoy the telling of a story in many forms. Now I find myself forced to choose the better story – or really, the better writing (because the writing uplifts or suppresses the story it seeks to tell).

So, what is good writing? It feels like a specific offshoot of the often-asked question, what is art? Is it something that makes you feel? Is it transporting the reader effectively into another time, world, experience? Must it be impossible to put down, or can it be so powerful as to require breaks in order to process?

I don’t know. If I knew that, I guess I would actually and officially be a writer.

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Write Every Day, Day One

Is there any chance I can actually do this?

In real life, most would characterize me as extremely disciplined. Which I generally am, although not by nature. My true self dreams of sitting in filtered sunlight, reading a not-terribly-highbrow book while snacking on chips and a Diet Coke. Preferably with the ocean’s soundtrack and an onshore breeze. This fact seems to surprise those same people.

I am disciplined not by nature but by necessity. The past three decades required it. I look to the first two years after college, working in a professional setting while maintaining a long-distance relationship that ultimately led to marriage. The early days of supporting my husband’s business, which required me to drive directly from my 9 to 5 job to man the front desk until close (meaning that having dinner to eat in the car required preplanning before leaving the house in the morning, because there was no money to drive through somewhere every day). Having two children under two years old as we stretched again in opening a second business, with a household budget equally stretched, making every moment of naptime or Mother’s Day Out fully productive to keep life running. Menu planning down to each meal of each day in order to successfully navigate everyone’s practices/games/lessons/church activities. Making a “cleaning schedule” for Saturday morning, assigning an exact timeframe to each area of the house and, if I completed that area in a shorter amount of time, giving myself the leftover time to read and snack (a common theme for me).

I wanted it all. A husband pursuing his dream business rather than just doing some job for someone else. Children with a variety of options to develop skills and interests that build brain, body, and spiritual growth. Meals that gave everyone the best chance at good health and happiness. A warm, welcoming, clean home as a place of retreat and rest. A separate business to use creative and strategic skills to financially contribute to the family. A place (emotional and physical) for friends in need to come for peace. An anchor for the family ship in any kind of weather.

Discipline doesn’t help achieve these dreams. These dreams demand it. Discipline says, “If you truly want this, I am the way.” I wanted it. Discipline delivered.

I now occupy a very different reality. With adult children very nearly launched, our household of two ebbs and flows more easily through those dreams. The beautiful outcome of years of discipline is a lightening of its load. With that in mind, I turn to the mirror to see what else lives there – what came before those decades we have moved through. Writing was one such dream, occasionally surfacing across the years but never calling out for its due attention. And here I sit, struggling as new openness and availability battles with a lack of discipline around this particular art and expression.

The primary element – excuse? – that always freezes me into inaction is fear. Why should I write publicly? Isn’t that implying that people should be reading what I am writing? Why would anyone want to read what I write? Even asking that question feels wildly uncomfortable, knowing that it could be perceived as fishing for compliments or affirmation (neither of which is the case). Having grappled with this feeling for years and conveniently finding no good time to come to resolution, I find that good time is now. Do I write because I care what other people think, or because there are words that want to get out and I need a place to put them? Certainly the latter. My husband told me he wishes me to write so that there is a record, in my words, out in the world. A record of what, I ask? Nothing in particular, he says. Just your words. The things you think and say. The air doesn’t hold them; writing does.

So I decide it is time to write. Writing in public, as the internet certainly is, ultimately serves as accountability. If I can learn discipline around things no one loves (cleaning bathrooms?), I can build discipline in this. Starting today.

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