It’s one thing to talk about getting something published, and quite another to shut up and pursue the opportunities. One thing to tell your friends that you’ve written a novel and quite another to write a letter selling the idea and yourself as the writer to a complete stranger who will judge you and your work, not only on quality, but on whether or not your book will help her feed and clothe her children. One thing to make the final pass on a manuscript and pronounce it “very good,” and quite another to be curled in the fetal position in front of your laptop, trembling uncontrollably every time you attempt to stretch out a finger and tap the SEND button on your email.
I was going to offer some humble advice on conquering your fears so you can get your work out there, but as I’ve yet to send any of my work to anyone in its entirety, even humble advice is hopelessly presumptuous. Better to offer humble advice on living with yourself while struggling with crippling, albeit silly, fears.
I used to think that writers afraid to send their work out were afraid because, deep-down, they knew there were still improvements to be made on the manuscript. The fear they were experiencing was not the fear of being vulnerable or of being rejected, but a fear of facing the fact that they were not the writers they thought themselves, that there was a long road of revision ahead before they should attempt sales.
But now I’m not so sure.
I approach the evaluation of my own writing with what I hope is not an undue dose of confidence. I’ve been writing stories for ten years, now. I made creative writing my study at college and learned much from people who were smarter than me and who were also much better writers. I learned that I wasn’t so bad myself, if the judgments of the professional educators at my school could be trusted, and I know I improved. I myself became a professional at evaluating academic writing during my time at school, and now have about four years’ worth of experience looking at all kinds of writing and identifying not only the strengths and weaknesses, but how improvements might be made. It is this experience, along with the understanding that a bit of distance is important, that I bring to my own work: revising and editing and rewriting and finally calling it quits, not in defeat, but with a triumphant feeling thrumming through me, because I finished something, and I know it’s as good as I can make it.
But as good as this victory is, I’m still left in the fetal position, afraid of my email inbox, trembling uncontrollably.
And right now, that’s that.