My Greatest Weakness as a Writer
At age 13, I decided I would be a writer.
I had spent my childhood in a house filled with books. Books were my comfort, my entertainment, my security.
My early childhood had been marked by tragedy and loneliness. My parents divorced when I was five. My father moved away and remarried. A couple years later, my younger sister died of leukemia. She was five, and I was seven.
After that sad start, the remainder of my formative years were stable and reasonably happy. My mother raised me as a single parent. I saw my dad and his family every other weekend. I had my grandparents living nearby in the same small town. I had friends that I had known since Kindergarten.
And I had books.
My mom was an elementary school teacher. Her father, my grandpa, was — and still is — an avid reader of fiction. He read to my mom and her brothers when they were growing up, and my mom read to me.
My early life was a bit lonely. I didn’t grow up in a large, extended family or even with siblings living with me. It was just Mom and I in our house — but our house was also filled with books. My entire life, I have been surrounded by books, reading, and learning.
I’m thankful for that.
Naturally, when it was time to choose a vocation, I chose writing.
In the eighth grade, I decided that when I grew up and got one of those jobs, my job would be to write books. The same kinds of books I read constantly throughout my childhood: mysteries, fantasy, and history.
Here was my plan:
After studying literature and writing in college, I would move to Wyoming. I would live by myself in an isolated cabin, write books, and send them off to my publisher who would then send me a check in return.
Simple. Just move to Wyoming and start writing.
Wait. Wyoming????
Yes.
Montana was also an option. Montana was the ultimate destination of the cattle drive led by Captains Gus McCrae and Woodrow F. Call.
You see, I had just finished reading Larry McMurtry’s Lonesome Dove. The miniseries had also aired on TV. My love for that book sparked a years-long phase in which I read every Larry McMurtry novel and consumed every western genre book, novel, TV show, or movie I could get my hands on.
I was smack in the middle of this Old West phase when I decided to become a writer and live in a remote cabin on the open range.
(I did mention I was thirteen, right?)
From an early age, I craved solitude.
I had done my research. Wyoming was the least populated state in the nation as well as one of the least populated per square mile.
This was its greatest appeal.
I was a teenage introvert. A daydreamer with her nose in a book. My image of an isolated writer’s life was my dream — to get the hell away from people, to have them leave me alone so I could read and write in peace.
I eventually grew out of the western phase but not the urge to become a writer.
Nor did I ever overcome my need for solitude.
To this day, I would rather work alone and avoid human interaction on a daily basis than work in an office with — ugh — co-workers.
In my youthful innocence, I began telling people about my writing career plan.
Then I stopped sharing the plan after so many people closest to me failed to support the idea. (That family of readers I mentioned? Not so much with the writing.) I went to college, switching majors a handful of times, trying to please everyone else and pretending to be something I was not.
But that’s a different story. The point is, my natural introvertive nature became even more pronounced, especially when it came to my writing.
It wasn’t worth sharing my dream of writing when so many people told me it was ridiculous.
I stopped sharing my writing.
Then I stopped writing.
My natural introvertive nature became my greatest weakness as a writer.
Eventually, through years of struggle, I started writing again. But I still prefer solitude. I still have trouble telling new acquaintances that I’m a writer and even interacting with other writers.
My fragile ego would rather hide and be safe than share my writing and risk judgment, rejection, or bitter competition.
Consequently, I struggle to build a solid network of fellow writers to help me promote my work, and I have only a few writing acquaintances to provide support during inevitable difficulties of a writing career.
Weeks go by, and I realize I haven’t spoken to or interacted with another writer.
Writing is solitary work, even if you collaborate with other authors. Even with a writing partner, you’re still responsible for your own words on the page. When it comes time to get to work, it’s you and the page. For hours.
Writers must be comfortable working alone, occupied for hours with nothing but our own thoughts.
But writers shouldn’t be isolated.
Outside our creative work, we should help each other, support each other, and root for each other.
To be a writer is to be vulnerable. Our creative work is reviewed, analyzed, and criticized, and to endure that kind of scrutiny we need not only have inner courage and confidence but also an outer support system of our peers.
Whether we’re celebrating the completion of a novel that took us months to write or bracing ourselves against the defeat of a bad reviews, we need other writers. Our friends, family, and partners are there for us, but only another writer can fully understand what we’re going through.
This is why I encourage as many writers as I can, both as a novel coach and in my writers’ group. This is why I write about not keeping your writing a secret and managing self-doubt and creative anxiety.
And now that I call myself a professional writer, I work harder to build my network of writing peers by attending writers’ group meetings, trading critiques online, and attending writing conferences.
But I still don’t like it.
It’s an uphill climb for me, but it’s worth it to be in the company of others who understand.
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