Learning to Let Go

If you have ever defined yourself by something you do or by the people you know, you will understand the crippling, shriveling notion of emptiness when you start to lose touch with what you thought was your very self condensed into one representative part.

I have before discussed my struggles with acknowledging myself as a writer. It’s something that I have used as a personal qualifier for about half of my life. When people ask me what I am, or what I do, I will eventually get around to the fact that I write, if it isn't the first thing I talk about. It is a part of who I am, and it can no easier be removed from my personality than you can change the color of my eyes.

And yet.

There have been times, very dark times, when I doubted whether or not I was a writer anymore. Everyone grows out of hobbies, childhood dreams that fade away as time and experience teach us there are better things to be spending our energies on. Growing up I wanted to be a veterinarian. Then I wanted to be a zoologist. Then a herpetologist. I wanted to raise falcons and have twelve large dogs, living out in the country somewhere with a menagerie of beautiful animals as my constant companions. But I set those dreams aside as I grew older. I became attracted to other hobbies, other life goals. And I was never disappointed by my choice to move on from these ideas. It was just a part of growing up.

So when I consider, perhaps, that maybe after all I’m not the writer I think I am, I am surprised by the immediate, gut-wrenching, heart-shattering sorrow that comes with such a thought. It’s not just the growing pains of moving on from something that interested me for a little while. It’s the fear that maybe a part of myself is not who I thought I was.

The writing process has a way of making us analyze ourselves very thoroughly. We consider our self-worth. We consider our talent. We consider our relationships with other people and with the world around us. We consider what we will leave behind when we’re dead and gone – a few pages of scribbled notes that will get recycled by our children? Or a story that will burn through the minds of generations to come?

And sometimes, these considerations are painful, they are raw, and they are revealing. We see pieces of ourselves we do not want to see. And sometimes that makes us doubt our identity.

Getting to the point, though, I think that anyone who suffers from bouts of terror like these has, in reality, nothing to fear.

I was expressing these very struggles to my fabulously talented and prolific sister, who has written three novels in the past two years, just the other day. I was, as usual, bemoaning my lack of drive. Crying about how my urge to write was motivated more by guilt than by the happiness that writing should bring me.

I mean, writers are supposed to enjoy writing. That’s how all writers are.

Right?

In response, my wise sister sent me an article about quitting. When something no longer makes you happy, but instead fills you with dread at the thought of doing it, it’s time to hang it up. Maybe forever.

But the more I thought about putting down my pen, the calmer I became. Because I realized that, as much of a struggle as writing can be for me, the idea of quitting was so upsetting that I am certain I will never allow myself to do so.

And thus, my fears that I’m not actually a writer are cured – because no one who is born to do something will find themselves just letting it go because the going gets tough. We can’t stop. It’s not in our nature. We may gripe and groan and feel the pain of the process, we may even stall out completely for months on end. But that doesn't make us any less of what we are.

J. R. R. Tolkien, who I guarantee will still be a well-known name for generations to come, said “Usually I compose only with great difficulty and endless rewriting.” I have heard that he was a notorious critic of his own work. And this fact is comforting to me, in the face of the constant propaganda that truly talented writers don’t ever struggle; don’t ever have doubts; don’t ever spend hours wondering about their place in the world.

If there’s anything that I can offer to you, I hope it is the courage to keep going, and the assurance that you are not losing yourself. The very agony you feel is proof enough of what you are. If we weren't writers to the core, we would have put aside our pens as idle, childish hobbies years ago. Most people in their lifetimes attempt to write a book. Most of them quit early on in the process. And the rest of us endure. Instead, we continue to wrestle and pour ourselves out onto the page. Maybe one page at a time, maybe a hundred pages at a time. It doesn't matter either way. Writers are not judged by how quickly they write, but by the stories they tell. Tell yours, and leave the fear behind.