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Despite all my advancements in the realm of being a fully functional and generally happy adult, something I think I'll always struggle with is finding value in my writing. All the story hits and positive comments and therapy in the world aren't likely to ever rectify this.
I had a long conversation with my s.o. the other day about whether I considered myself a legitimate writer. Long story short, I don't. For as much as I bloviate about utilizing fic to hone my craft, it's hard for me to recognize writing fic as a legitimate expression of creativity. There's a part of me that knows that I'm probably wrong, but the part of me that believes it wholeheartedly is bigger, and louder, and rooted more deeply.
I've been thinking about this a lot lately. Growing up, I wasn't encouraged to pursue things because I was interested in them; one particular moment I always come back to is the total lack of support I received from my parents when I decided to participate in a choral competition (basically, blind auditions for a state choir). (Side note: Choir was a big passion of mine before most everyone involved in it at my high school pretty much killed my love for it.) The sort of thing you spend as much time as possible practicing for - attending rehearsals before and after school, working with a vocal coach, drilling at home, etc., etc.
I did this for a few years, and I never made it. Which was fine - disappointing, but it didn't destroy my world. But one year, after coming home to my parents and sharing the news (once again) that no, I didn't make it, they told me it was stupid that I bothered continuing to do this, that I never made it, that I was wasting my time, so what the hell was the point?
My takeaway from this was not to stop doing the things I loved or was interested in, thankfully (it wasn't the first time I'd received this message anyway) - it was to simply never share that which I loved with other people. And because it wasn't the first time I'd been told something like this, I had internalized two pretty damaging messages by this point: 1) I could not share anything that mattered to me with others because it would become a weapon to be used against me later, and 2) The things that mattered to me had no value.
Re: that first message, I still do this! (Recently, I let my guard down and shared something with a family member - something fairly innocuous, thankfully, but still something kind of personal - and sure enough, months later, they turned it into a stick and tried to bludgeon me with it.) Sometimes I hate that I do this! But most of the time, I don't, because doing this has also protected me. As Meredith Grey once said (Jesus, does anyone even watch that show anymore), "I make no apologies for how I chose to fix what you broke." I did what I could to keep myself sane - they turned my moments of vulnerability into weapons to use against me, and so I armed myself by going silent and sharing nothing.
There are times I have really, really regretted this. It has affected not just my relationships with my family by blood, but with my family by choice. It's really fucked up friendships. That's the stuff I regret the most. I don't really have my family to blame for that, even though they buried those seeds in me and nurtured those plants so they rooted, deep. I tried to kill them by denying them water, but the vestiges of those weeds are still there, dead and twisting up my insides.
So here I am, an adult woman who loves to write but can't find value in it because I learned early on that there is no value in what you love to do if it does not result in tangible success. My s.o. asked me, "What would make you feel like a legitimate writer?" and I said, "Being published." Not the page counts on TEF, not the views, not the amount of words I've committed to the page, not the hours I've pored over my stories, not the scores of reviews, as much as I love them. Neither my therapist nor my s.o. has been able to convince me, no matter how often it comes up. I know being published will not necessarily make me feel like a "legit writer." But that's how I measure it anyway. Those were the roots that were planted, and though they've shriveled, the tunnels inside me remain.
Be good to your children and your friends. Be supportive of one another. The things you love to do have value. And if this message applies to you, even if you don't believe it yet, tell it to yourself over and over and over again, because maybe someday you will.
I had a long conversation with my s.o. the other day about whether I considered myself a legitimate writer. Long story short, I don't. For as much as I bloviate about utilizing fic to hone my craft, it's hard for me to recognize writing fic as a legitimate expression of creativity. There's a part of me that knows that I'm probably wrong, but the part of me that believes it wholeheartedly is bigger, and louder, and rooted more deeply.
I've been thinking about this a lot lately. Growing up, I wasn't encouraged to pursue things because I was interested in them; one particular moment I always come back to is the total lack of support I received from my parents when I decided to participate in a choral competition (basically, blind auditions for a state choir). (Side note: Choir was a big passion of mine before most everyone involved in it at my high school pretty much killed my love for it.) The sort of thing you spend as much time as possible practicing for - attending rehearsals before and after school, working with a vocal coach, drilling at home, etc., etc.
I did this for a few years, and I never made it. Which was fine - disappointing, but it didn't destroy my world. But one year, after coming home to my parents and sharing the news (once again) that no, I didn't make it, they told me it was stupid that I bothered continuing to do this, that I never made it, that I was wasting my time, so what the hell was the point?
My takeaway from this was not to stop doing the things I loved or was interested in, thankfully (it wasn't the first time I'd received this message anyway) - it was to simply never share that which I loved with other people. And because it wasn't the first time I'd been told something like this, I had internalized two pretty damaging messages by this point: 1) I could not share anything that mattered to me with others because it would become a weapon to be used against me later, and 2) The things that mattered to me had no value.
Re: that first message, I still do this! (Recently, I let my guard down and shared something with a family member - something fairly innocuous, thankfully, but still something kind of personal - and sure enough, months later, they turned it into a stick and tried to bludgeon me with it.) Sometimes I hate that I do this! But most of the time, I don't, because doing this has also protected me. As Meredith Grey once said (Jesus, does anyone even watch that show anymore), "I make no apologies for how I chose to fix what you broke." I did what I could to keep myself sane - they turned my moments of vulnerability into weapons to use against me, and so I armed myself by going silent and sharing nothing.
There are times I have really, really regretted this. It has affected not just my relationships with my family by blood, but with my family by choice. It's really fucked up friendships. That's the stuff I regret the most. I don't really have my family to blame for that, even though they buried those seeds in me and nurtured those plants so they rooted, deep. I tried to kill them by denying them water, but the vestiges of those weeds are still there, dead and twisting up my insides.
So here I am, an adult woman who loves to write but can't find value in it because I learned early on that there is no value in what you love to do if it does not result in tangible success. My s.o. asked me, "What would make you feel like a legitimate writer?" and I said, "Being published." Not the page counts on TEF, not the views, not the amount of words I've committed to the page, not the hours I've pored over my stories, not the scores of reviews, as much as I love them. Neither my therapist nor my s.o. has been able to convince me, no matter how often it comes up. I know being published will not necessarily make me feel like a "legit writer." But that's how I measure it anyway. Those were the roots that were planted, and though they've shriveled, the tunnels inside me remain.
Be good to your children and your friends. Be supportive of one another. The things you love to do have value. And if this message applies to you, even if you don't believe it yet, tell it to yourself over and over and over again, because maybe someday you will.
