We're all good kids

I've never been a self-loathing writer. I've never bought into the martyrdom of writing, the suffering, the bleeding onto the page that other people like to say is necessary for this work. (In fact, I've always believed that mindset is detrimental, to writing and to, like, living a decent life.) I like writing—I like the act of it, the challenges, the thinking and insight that get you through the challenges. I don't think I'm the best writer out there, but I'm usually pretty pleased with what comes out.

Which is why it felt like truth when I found myself thinking recently, Hm I think my book might be coming out bad.

This feeling had been creeping for a while: dissatisfaction with the sections I was drafting, a disconnect from the way the rhythm of language usually carries me from thought to thought, not really feeling like I'd created anything, just paraphrased some science and explained what I knew. But then I came across the two-years-ago announcement of my book's sale, and the project described there—in admittedly high-falutin run-on sentences overstuffed to meet a two-sentence limit—didn't sound like what I was writing at all. The announcement promised "Leslie Jamison meets Seven Brief Lessons on Physics," "a scientific and cultural exploration" and "a multi-disciplinary approach, considering how the possibility of life on other planets shapes our understanding of humanity." I didn't feel like that was what I'd been writing lately at all. And because I am not usually a self-loathing writer, I believed that feeling.

So I did what I often do with a feeling I don't like: I tweeted about it. And I'm lucky that friends heard that cry for help, especially friends who've walked this path before me. They reassured me, in a few precious texts and DMs, that this dark spell is common, maybe almost required in the process of writing a book. They promised me that the work I was doing was worthwhile—I'm always an advocate for shitty first drafts, anyway. And, maybe most importantly, they told me that I'm a good writer.

I follow a good handful of parenting experts on instagram—how to feed toddlers and how to play with them and how to try to not utterly ruin them emotionally. One psychologist comes back again and again to the idea that our kids need to be told they're good kids. "You're a good kid going through a hard time" is a common refrain. She offers it to the parents, too: "This feels hard because it is hard. You're a good parent having a tough time." She says that kids need to believe in their intrinsic goodness, even when they struggle or misbehave, so that they (and we) can see their struggles and misbehavior as expressions of feelings, not expressions of intrinsic badness. It helps us keep moving, and it helps them avoid shame. 

I hadn't realized that part of what I needed was to apply her aphorisms and mantras not just to my toddler, not just to me as a parent, but to me as a writer. Because if there's a part of your adult self with a stronger direct line to your inner child than that, I don't know it. I don't mean that in a woo or abstract way—it's pretty literal. Writing makes you vulnerable, it makes you live in a place of not-knowing, of trying to figure out the rules to something bigger and more sophisticated than you can comprehend. And it's full of the fear of rejection and of judgement. But it can also—should also! I told you I'm not a martyr about this—be an expression of play and discovery and joy.

So of course this comes back to Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way. It's been on my mind for a while, and Katie wrote about it beautifully in her most recent newsletter. (There's almost nothing I love more than when writers I love write about The Artist's Way, but Katie also wrote about loving Blank Check, which is up there in the competition.) I've done the full course of The Artist's Way two or three times now—it's a twelve-week self-help progression to reconnect with your inner artist. It is cheesy! It's so cheesy. And it absolutely works. My best friend bought me a copy of the book I think when I graduated college, because she believes in me as a writer more than anyone else in the world, and I finally cracked it inspired by Meaghan's landmark essay. There are twelve weeks of exercises, but the throughlines are two ongoing practices: daily freewriting ("morning pages"), and weekly "artist dates," where you build up your bank of inspiration, filling your artistic up so you can pour. (I think part of their power is even just the act of saying "I'm taking two hours today for myself, because I am an artist and I need this.") 

I used to take myself to museums, to the botanic garden, to the movies or a play all alone. I used to live in a city, not in a pandemic, without a toddler! I'm not worrying about artist dates for now. 

I'm doing morning pages a few days a week, but there's an even cheesier element of The Artist's Way that I've brought back into my desperate rotation. Affirmations. I know! Even cheesier than reconnecting with your inner child. But the logic that Cameron gives for them is so perfect. To paraphrase: We say awful things to ourselves, about ourselves, all the time, and even if we know, somewhere in our minds, that these awful things might not be true, we believe them, or they at least make us feel bad. So, why not say some good things to yourself, about yourself, even if you don't believe them, and see if it helps. (It does.)

Cameron has you tailor your affirmations, writing out a list of "blurts," all the bad things you believe about yourself and your art. Then, you write the opposite of each blurt—the positive flip-side. "I'm a bad writer" becomes "I'm a good writer," "No one cares about my writing" becomes "People want to read what I write." You can do it for things other than writing, too. Whatever it's for, you don't have to stand in front of a mirror reading yourself affirmations with a forced smile. You can write them to yourself in a notebook, or on a piece of paper that you throw away (torn up so no one sees it, if you need that). You just try to really hear the words while you're writing them.

Telling myself nice things, or hearing nice things from friends, doesn't change how hard writing a book feels. (I used to wonder how anyone could write something as big and complex as a book—it always seemed like too much to hold in your head! Turns out it is.) And aside from the fact that I've already been paid an advance that I absolutely cannot afford to pay back, I love this book, I love the hope of what it can be. Every so often I discover something wonderful—a fact about how evolution works or a pleasing way I put a few words together. And then I go back to feeling like I'm lost. But maybe the most telling thing is after writing this newsletter I'm afraid it'll make you think the book won't be good. Not because that prospect is embarrassing, or I need to sell copies. No, I hate the idea that you'll think the book won't be good because there actually still is a part of me—and I'm feeding and watering her every day—that thinks it absolutely will be.