CHAPTER 14

The Lie:

I’M A TERRIBLE WRITER

After I published my first book, Party Girl, I would occasionally (read: every eleven seconds) check Goodreads to see what people were saying about it. As a massive book nerd who devours online reviews in order to build my TBR pile, it felt so exciting to read other people’s reviews of a book I had written! It was such an incredible boost for me—especially as I fought my way through writing the sequel—to see the lovely things readers were saying. I was driven to tears more than once by some sweet fan explaining exactly why she loved my characters, all as I’m thinking, Yes! That is exactly what I hoped you’d see in her! I lived in this dream world for months. I honestly didn’t even know any other reality existed. Then one day, it suddenly ended.

I got my first bad review.

It’s hard to explain exactly how it felt to see someone giving my work two stars . . . but I liken it to being punched in the stomach, then the face, then the stomach again. I entered the early stages of what I like to call “critique grief.” The first is, obviously, denial. I read her review and then read it again. Turns out, no matter how many times I read it, she still thought my work was “trite” and “ridiculous.” Next up? In real-life grief stages it would be anger, but for critique grief, at least for me, believing the bad stuff was so much easier than believing the good. Nah, no anger for me—I went right to bargaining. The first idea in my people-pleasing brain was to comment and try to get her to understand my intentions with the work. Better yet, maybe I could find a way to befriend her! Because surely if we became social media acquaintances, and then social media besties, then she would know me and therefore better understand my writing. Surely then she wouldn’t have disliked it quite so much.

I felt sick to my stomach as I slipped into the last stage of critique grief: acceptance. I decided if this unknown woman was right, maybe everyone else was too easy on my book because it was a debut novel. Maybe this one person was a better judge and I was, in fact, a terrible writer.

I was spiraling.

In the midst of it, I heard that little voice in my head that helps me out in times of crazy. No, not God or Jiminy Cricket or even my inner self. The voice in my head is from my therapist, Denise. God bless her.

Years ago Denise told a younger, much more anxiety-ridden me: “Someone else’s opinion of you is none of your business.”

Let me say that again for the people in the cheap seats.

SOMEONE ELSE’S OPINION OF ME IS NONE OF MY BUSINESS.

Someone else’s opinion of you is none of your business. Those words are so powerful for anyone who tends to hold other people’s opinions ahead of their own; and they are never more profound than when we’re creating something. Maybe it’s a book, a blog, a company, a piece of art, or your fashion sense. When you’re creating something from your heart, you do it because you can’t not do it. You produce it because you believe your creation deserves to be out in the world. You work and work and then you close your eyes and cross your fingers and hope it finds recognition. But here’s the thing about that magical, mystical thing you’re making: You create because you have a God-given ability to do so. You create as a gift to yourself and to the higher power who blessed you with those abilities. But you can’t make people like or understand it.

You have to be willing to put it out there even if they don’t like it. Even if they hate it. Even if they give it two stars or none at all. You have to understand that every person on earth has an opinion, and their opinion—even if they’re the most widely recognized expert on the subject—only has bearing on your work if you let it. A mean review cannot make me a bad writer. Can I write terribly?

Oh heck yes!

The first (second and third) draft of everything I write is basically garbage. If I refuse to take constructive criticism from an editor I trust, if I don’t push myself to grow as a writer, if I regurgitate the same story over and over, or worse, if I try to impersonate someone else’s style—then yes, there’s a good chance my work is going to suck. But deciding that something is bad simply because other people don’t like or understand it is not a theory I can co-sign.

Art and creativity are so subjective, and dang it, it’s hard to find the courage and drive to complete anything. So, sister, if you’re going to work that hard on a project, do you really want to allow it to be blown apart by something as flimsy as an opinion?

As an artist or a creator, you have to decide. You have to choose a path or live the rest of your life slowly killing your ability to do great work for fear of what others will think. You have to decide that you care more about creating your magic and pushing it out into the world than you do about how it will be received.

This task is much easier said than done.

As I sit writing this chapter in my favorite local coffee shop, I’ve checked my other browser approximately thirty times. This morning I posted an article on a website I’ve contributed to for years. But today I decided to talk about something a tad bit controversial—at least, it’s outside of the kind of post I’m typically known for there. And so now I’m wondering, Will anyone get it? Will it find a home and an audience? Or worse yet, Will it make anyone mad?

Even after years of putting myself out there, I still get caught up in the lie that I might be a terrible writer or that I should create or not based on whether I have an audience for it. I start to believe that I need public opinion to validate my desire to make something, when the truth is, I should embrace my creativity because it’s a God-given ability. Any time I try something new, I will have to fight off the desire to confirm that it will be loved in order to keep going. Since I anticipate being creative and trying new things for as long as I’m living, that could mean decades of occasionally being trapped by unhelpful anxieties.

What a waste of energy.

Would I rather bottle up my creative thoughts and ideas? No. I hope they find a home . . . even if they only resonate with a handful of people. So then I have to ask myself if I would be willing to risk a negative response if my work resonated positively with others? What if only one person gets it, but everyone else hates it? What if nobody loves it at all?

Would it be worth it even then?

Yes.

My answer is yes. I would rather put my work out there no matter what the response will be. I would rather create in celebration of the fact that I have the ability to do so.

For me the answer is to create. That is always the answer. My personal form of creation is writing—especially writing words I hope other people will enjoy.

So I have two choices: I can write down words and send them out into the world and hope they find a home. Or I can hide my light under a bushel because I’m too afraid someone won’t like the glare.

I choose this.

I choose to sit in coffee shops and on airplanes and at my kitchen counter writing. I choose to squeeze in minutes between soccer practice or before sunrise or long after everyone else in the house is asleep to type and type and type until I stream enough sentences together to make a book.

I have no idea if you’ll love it or hate it.

Obviously, I hope you dig the heck out of it and buy a hundred copies for all of your friends. But even if you don’t, I’ll still be here.

I started at this desk alone, without an audience to read my work. I’ll stay here as long as I’ve got words jumbling around in my head, whether or not there’s anyone to receive them.

When I was a little girl I spent every Sunday (and most other days) at the small First Assembly of God church where my daddy was the pastor. Our song service included Mama on the piano and a handful of tambourines sprinkled throughout the room. We were simultaneously off-key and in three-part harmony in a way only a small country church can pull off.

As I got older I experienced the sedate musicality of a large Presbyterian congregation, the joy of an inner-city gospel choir, and the theatrics of a megachurch. I’ve been to tiny prayer meetings in Ethiopia where I couldn’t understand a single word but felt every one of them. I’ve spent hours upon hours of my life singing and clapping in church, and this is what I’ve come to discover:

Writing—for me—is its own kind of worship.

The definition of worship is “the feeling of expression or reverence for a deity.” Creating is the greatest expression of reverence I can think of because I recognize that the desire to make something is a gift from God. The freedom to carve out the time and have a safe place to create that art is a blessing of the highest level in a world where so many people are unable to have either. Every time I indulge in the art of creation without worrying about what the public will think of it is craft in its purest form—and craft can be any old thing at all. For me it’s writing. For you it might be painting, making quilts, or taking a Thursday-night ballet class. Whether or not something is good or worthy is up for interpretation, and if you’re unconcerned about other people’s interpretations, then everything you make is fantastic.

I hope you’ll remember this in your own life, and I hope you’ll create for yourself. Do it in celebration of your ability to do so, regardless of what anyone else thinks.

THINGS THAT HELPED ME . . .

1. I stopped reading reviews. This is a big deal, you guys. I have no idea what you think of anything I’ve written since that bad review on Party Girl so many years ago. Maybe you love my books, maybe you use them for kindling . . . either way, it doesn’t affect my desire to keep writing more. Everyone gets reviewed, even if you’re just asking for the opinion of your judgmental sister and being torn apart by her response. Do something daring this year and stop “reading” your version of reviews.

2. I write for myself. I write fiction about girls falling in love in Los Angeles. I write cookbooks about cheese-based dips. Now here I am writing a nonfiction book about the struggles and triumphs in my life. This makes no earthly sense. Authors write in one or two genres, and they build up clout in a handful of areas. Here’s the bottom line: writing is my art, my creative outlet. It is literally my lifelong dream come true, and therefore, I hold it sacred. It never has been, and never will be, my job. I don’t need it to make money to be valuable. This is an important distinction for me because I never want the creative choices I’m making to be based on money or business rather than whatever is on my heart and in my head. If you have it within your power to keep a piece of your creativity just for yourself, it is truly a gift.

3. I indulge in silliness. I color with my boys. I draw on the ground with sidewalk chalk. I watch YouTube videos about how to do shimmery, smoky eyes and try to replicate it even if I have nowhere to go. I reach for silly, creative endeavors that serve no real purpose other than joy.