What having an author coach taught me about autonomy
3AM. Angry tears slid out of my eyes as I stared at the ceiling, caught in one of the worst shame spirals I've had in a long time. Only this time, the spiral was different.
It was directed at my writing, and at myself as a writer.
In more than two decades of writing every single day, I had never experienced this kind of hatred and anger toward my writing.
Something was wrong.
The next day, I messaged my author coach and told her I was taking a break. When our next one-on-one session got postponed twice, I noticed something surprising.
I felt relieved.
Over the past ten years of doing my own trauma work, I've learned to listen to my body, notice my emotions, and observe my reactions with curiosity. That relief was a signal.
So when my coach and I finally met, we talked it through. The truth was, I hadn't been enjoying writing since we started working together.
It wasn’t her fault.
She was exactly what I had been looking for: someone to cheer me on, help me brainstorm, and eventually help me develop my pitch package when I was ready to submit my manuscript to agents and publishers.
The problem was that I had brought her into the process too soon. I invited someone into the development of the story while I was still discovering the story myself.
Without realizing it, I began writing from my head instead of my body. I shifted into problem-solving and intellectual analysis.
But that's not how I write.
It's not how I've ever written.
My writing is deeply embodied. Every part of me is involved in the process. I feel my way through plot holes, character arcs, and difficult scenes.
This is one reason I'll probably never teach writing workshops. I honestly don't know how I would explain my process, much less teach someone else to replicate it.
It's intuition. It's feeling. It's a full-body experience.
While working with my coach, I discovered how difficult it was to communicate that process to another person.
Explaining meant more words, more analysis, more work, and less connection to my body, my intuition, and my emotions.
None of this was intentional. Not on my part, and not on my coach's.
But the anger and shame I felt toward my writing were unlike anything I had experienced before. And I knew I never wanted to feel that way again.
A friend sat with me while I cried through this season, wondering if my author career was over. She playfully chided me: "Katherine, it's only been three months. You can't determine your entire career based on three months."
It makes me laugh now. (Authors can be dramatic sometimes.)
So, my coach and I came to an understanding. We put our regular sessions on hold, and I decided to continue writing the book on my own until I was ready for her help with the pitch package.
But there was another voice running in the background.
It told me I was arrogant for not wanting help. It told me I was prideful for preferring to work independently. It dangled the morsel that my coach was a professional, that she knew things I didn't, and that humility meant deferring to her expertise.
I gaslit myself by pushing through when I first started to struggle.
Until my brain short-circuited and my body finally rebelled, demanding that I listen.
Some authors thrive in critique groups, writing groups, and collaborative partnerships.
It turns out that I don't. I write better on my own.
That doesn't mean I never receive feedback. I absolutely use beta readers and editors.
But that comes after I've written the book I want to write. After I'm happy with it.
Then, when someone offers feedback, I can decide whether it strengthens the story or whether I prefer the version I've already written.
My autonomy in the writing process is essential. Because I write best when I'm the only person in my head. When my body, my intuition, and my mind are working together.
As a trauma recovery coach, I've realized I approach my work with my clients in a similar way. I may be the expert in trauma modalities and how trauma works. But my clients are the experts on their own lives.
They decide what feels true, what fits, and what works.
I'm never trying to become the authority over their lives. I'm a guide, but they're in the driver's seat.
My author coach and I are still working together, we’ve just made some adjustments. Through this process, I learned that I'm still vulnerable to the messages I absorbed from high-control religion. The messages that taught me I needed to outsource my authority. That I couldn't trust myself.
But I can trust myself. I can trust my instincts as a writer.
I recently watched an interview with Taylor Swift where she talked about how she responds when people don't like one of her songs: "That's okay. I wrote it for myself anyway."
That has become my primary definition of success as an author.
Did I write a book that I would want to read? Did I write a book that makes me happy? Did I write a book that brings me joy?
Yes? Then I've already succeeded, regardless of what happens next.
Because how the creator feels about their art matters most.
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