Success in Writing

It’s hard for me to feel successful when I write.

When I was a little kid, I would always love the things I’d written. At every word of praise coaxed from my mother, I would glow; at every time I made my cousins laugh, I would shine with pride. I was convinced that I was the best writer ever, and that everything I wrote was great. I knew that once I grew up, I would write the best books ever written, and everyone would love them too.

Then, the doubt set in.

It started first with being compared to my sisters and cousins. I used to illustrate my books when I wrote them, because I enjoyed drawing almost as much as writing. But as my younger sister and my two cousins began to put more time into art, I started to feel inferior. They would nitpick things about my drawings, tell me what I’d done wrong, and as much as I would try to fix it, the criticism kept coming. Or worse, they’d smile vapidly and tell me it was great while sketching their own amazing piece of art and not giving mine a second glance. We had art contests sometimes, and I would always lose. My desire to draw tapered off until it was almost nonexistent, and I turned to just writing instead. But even then, the doubt of others being better had been put into my mind.

Then, I went to school. Middle school, where any sort of pride and joy I took in my writing was taken for bragging, and any sort of leadership or proactiveness I displayed was taken as bossiness. My peers were the instigators of this, not my teachers- their criticism and praise were always earned and appreciated. But children take to heart the words of their friends, and as my skills were casually maligned I stopped taking as much pride in my work. I stopped writing for fun as often as I used to, both for lack of time and lack of desire. I stopped showing my writing to people. I still loved to write, but I never felt like it was good enough. I would never finish projects I’d started. I doubted my own capabilities to even put the story that I wanted on paper. The few times I would show things to people, I would either get some praise (which I would smile at but then forget or assume was insincere), some criticism (which I would take to heart and add in, but wish for a few kind words as well), or worse, an incredulous look or laughter at some mistake I’d made. Most crushing of all was complete indifference, the most common response. I would anxiously send a draft of some creative writing piece to a friend, only to have the email sit unopened in their inbox for an entire semester.

Those were the things that slowly began my self doubt, which manifested itself not only in writing, but soon in physical appearance, intelligence, and any other category I’d once taken pride in. Art was long forgotten, and I’ve still never found the courage or desire to pick it back up again. Writing slowed, joy dimmed, and all thoughts of confidence were left behind in the dust. I would still write, but whenever I made a mistake or couldn’t progress further, the depression would set in and tell me I wasn’t good enough to continue. So I didn’t.

The doubt still lives in me, no matter how hard my boyfriend and friends and I try to work on it. College has been helpful so far: the independence and responsibility have assisted my taking charge of myself and my passions. As much as I am improving, though, it is slow work. On one day I may look in the mirror and feel proud of myself for all I’ve done. The next day I’ll glance in and feel a strong surge of shame in my reflection. Knowing I hadn’t done enough, I didn’t look good enough, I wasn’t smart enough. Days alternate, and I’m steadily getting better… but no one can recover instantly or completely from the dark pit of doubt.

My doubt is holding my mind hostage, and regaining control will take a long time.

With that being said, I have been able to find some small success in pieces that I write. A well-crafted sentence that brings a vivid image to mind will make me smile. Compliments on a concise article, an A on a paper I’d struggled over, excitement at the beginnings of a story… all of these bring some small vestige of success to me. These things make me feel happy. I know that I worked to achieve them. However, I have yet to be truly successful: to write an entire book and have it be loved.

I don’t need it to be popular. I don’t need it to be famous. I don’t need to be rich. If one person can honestly say that they love the book I’ve published, that it has inspired them, that they want to read more, I will feel like I have been successful. For me, part of the joy in creation is sharing my love of a story with others. Once I can do that, once I can put one of my novels to paper and have someone else enjoy it as much as I had, then I will finally know success.