This Is Part of the Work.
One of the most consistent pieces of advice I’ve been given as a writer is to read. This applies not only to the books you would consider your “comps” (comparable or competitive titles your ideal reader would know about or buy), or even your genre; writers should read widely, exploring multiple genres and styles. I’ve embraced this advice with gusto. Reading as homework? Sign me up!
But there’s a downside to this advice, and I’m not talking about my book-buying budget or the lack of space on my bookshelves. I’m talking about those moments when I come across a book--or even a passage, phrase, or metaphor—that bowls me over with its beauty, imagination, or profundity. This happened to me just recently, when reading Ingrid Rojas Contreras’s The Man Who Could Move Clouds. I loved, loved, loved it.
Do you know the feeling? Suddenly your own work seems clumsy, derivative, or naïve by comparison.
Excellence is intimidating.
When I get discouraged at these moments, I usually text a friend or whine to my husband. Underneath it is the perennial question: am I good enough?
When I’m ready to pick myself off the floor of my insecurity, I remind myself of two things.
First, I love writing because it gives me the opportunity for continual improvement; the pursuit of mastery is a joy in and of itself. Indeed, as Stephen King wrote in On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, “Good writing… may fill a new writer with feelings of despair and good old-fashioned jealousy—‘I’ll never be able to write anything that good, not if I live to be a thousand’—but such feelings can also serve as a spur, goading the writer to work harder and aim higher. Being swept away by a combination of great story and great writing—of being flattened, in fact—is part of every writer’s necessary formation. You cannot hope to sweep someone else away by the force of your writing until it has been done to you.”
Wow. Yep. Excellence is inspiring.
But even this requires qualification. The other thing I remember is that the book I’m holding is a polished, perfected thing. In Refuse to Be Done, author Matt Bell writes, “Published novels have little to teach you about how books are written; they tell us only what novels can do once fixed in their final form.”
Excellence takes work, and is often a team effort.
There’s a danger in turning the beauty of another piece of art into a verdict about our own skill, or worse—our self-worth. So when another artist’s work floors me, I notice the urge to disappear. Then, I choose to stay. I read more closely. I let it teach me something—not about my inadequacy, but about the kind of artist I’m becoming and the kind of support I need.
Our voices don’t need to compete. They need to continue.
How do you respond when you feel intimidated by a great piece of art?
