Writing, the Other Half of My Soul
After receiving six rejections for my manuscript in the course of two weeks, I spiraled into I’m a terrible writer. I’m a terrible writer. I’m a terrible writer.
I nearly contacted all my friends who’d proof-read the novel, begging for their thoughts, Am I a terrible write? Please, just put me out of my misery at tell me I’m a terrible writer.
I did not do this.
First, because I am far too insecure to invite anyone to tell me I’m terrible writer.
Second, because I knew, even if someone did tell me I was a terrible writer, this would have no bearing on whether or not I continued writing.
I’ve been writing nearly every day since I was 19, it’s a long enough time for this craft to have so integrated itself into my person that if my writing did not exist, there is a chance I would cease to exist as well.
This is different than identity. I don’t know if I would identify myself as writer solely, nor do I find my dignity and worth in my identification as a writer.
“The act of writing has so much to give, so much to teach, so many surprises. That thing you had to force yourself to do—the actual act of writing—turns out to be the best part. ”
Writing is truly a part of my personhood. Even more so, I think, than coffee or chocolate or exercise.
There is no world in which I could imagine living without coffee. Yet not even coffee is entombed with my conscious self as writing.
As I let the thought float as a temptation in front of me, maybe I should just give up, I know there is no world I live in where writing does not also live.
I will write, whether anyone reads or notices or publishes or gives good reviews or tells me I’m a fantastic writer.
Not because I’m good at it, but because it’s the other half of my soul.
Photo by Kira auf der Heide on Unsplash