Author’s note: I wrote this to you a few months ago now. Some things have changed! Others have not. You told me then I should publish it and I came very near to doing it and it did not work out. Even now I am a bit unsure but I’m going to trust you on it.
I have spent most of the summer in the middle of a nervous breakdown, which was improbably brought on by a series of events in my life which to anyone else must look like success.
Things started going wrong at the same time they started going right. I sold a book. I suddenly had a second career not just in theory but in fact. And all at once, overnight, the bottom fell out of my mind. I would go around my ordinary life, which still felt rather new to me, and people would congratulate me, and compliment me. And inside I really thought that they had to be either kidding me or lying. All the work of parties became deflection, about how to suddenly concentrate on shifting a glass from my right hand to my left, to look someone in the eye without actually listening, to calm my heart so that I would stop having to wipe sweat from my temple. I stopped going to parties, even to drinks, because of the sweat, actually. I worry that it is a dead giveaway. The last thing I want is for people to see that I know what they’re thinking, that I’m a mess. Having them name the thing that is bothering me would, somehow, make it worse.
I was not an early bloomer. It took me too long to figure out for myself that I had something to say. I was a good kid and a good student and what I knew, primarily, was praise. How to find it, how to get it, how to do it without committing any kind of error. You can’t be a writer like that. Not even oh-god-doesn’t-everyone-love-her Zadie Smith is a writer like that. There are mistakes of form and mistakes of content to be made in building a body of work. And for most of my life, I was unwilling to make a single one of them.
I had the idea that the first thing I published would have to be a perfect piece of work. It would have to have a form and soul so powerful everyone just had to listen to it. For most of my twenties I thought coming to it was a matter of waiting until the perfect pearl formed in my mind. Eventually there would be enough layers on it and the thing would just demand to be expelled into the world. But of course it didn’t turn out like that. Instead, after I hit A Certain Age, and realized that I could not keep waiting for life to come to me, I just started publishing work because it felt like time was running out on something. Now I think, what it was running out on was my giving up on myself. I was very lucky because my writing got picked up quickly, I had the most wonderful first editor I could hope for, other editors picked me up, and before I knew it I could no longer shrug about Being A Writer, I was one.
And I was/am miserable.
* * *
I think I’m obsessed with the lives of writers because I’m still in student mode. I want yardsticks, measurements. Lately what I chiefly want to know is how they managed to psychologically survive putting their work out for other people to read. The answer, I have found, through reading many biographies and letters and miscellaneous dispaches from the interior, is that by and large they didn’t. By and large reader reactions drove them mad.
The writers who were luckiest were the ones who eventually ended up locked away from people. For some of them, say Flannery O’Connor, it was the physical circumstance that kept them away. For others, say your Susan Sontags, early meteoric success let them build a psychological fortress which somehow made the whole thing compartmentalized. It let you know that you had a squad of sorts that you were writing for.
It used to be easier to stay up in your castle tower in that way. In general, in order to make their paltry livings, writers prior to this era did not publish every day. There are exceptions to that, mostly the ones who had day jobs as journalists, but among the greats they are few. Most people worked on slower schedules, with editors correcting their efforts and also with what I imagine must have been the very soothing thought that worst comes to worst, a bad piece would end up in the dustbin at the end of the workday and it was only with great difficulty that anyone could ever find it again.
This is no longer the way of things.
It depends where you’re writing, what you’re doing, of course. But if you want to make a living as a writer these days, you must produce at volume. You have to write at a pace which is against all self-editing, careful sentences, complex thought, everything short of an immediate reaction. And you have to do it all the while knowing that even if your work is instantly forgotten — and it usually is — someone can and will dig it up later to throw it in your face.
Not too long ago I had a detractor (male) point to something I’d written on my Tumblr three years ago as evidence of why no one should listen to me now. When he did this I was, indeed, embarrassed at the thing I’d dashed off, not wanting it to be the eternal evidence of who I was as a thinker and writer. But then I knew what I’d say to myself about it: he wasn’t playing outside of bounds, there was no foul, this is the internet, deal with it, try to be the personal embodiment of noregretschicken dot gif.
Which some days I can play quite well, as a role. But it’s not who I am.
* * *
Instead, I take the criticisms of others and turn them over in my mind. I possibly take that to an insane degree. I have persuaded myself there is a kind of honor in it. I do half-believe that. When I see others fuck up, and then defend themselves without giving a millimeter to the critics, I cringe on their behalf. I do not buy that the only way to write is with a self-confidence that borders on delusion. When editors tell you you have to “own your writing,” when they insist that your “I” should come across as the only thing that matters on the page, I do not think they mean this in a glib, self-help sense. I do not think they mean that you should simply believe that what you have to say is worth saying. I think interrogating yourself will actually lead to a stronger “I.” There’s a good half of true confidence, I think, that is really self-awareness.
But the other half is not to let that self-awareness destroy you.
Here is where I am with writing at the moment: it feels like I am trying to soak the last bits of moisture in a well up with a disintegrating washcloth. Where once putting down the words was like bailing myself out of the rising groundwater, now it’s all reaching and struggle and hard work.
And most days I cannot help but notice that no one wants to drink what little I’ve managed to collect, anyway. I think the struggle to pump it out is making it brackish. I do not blame anyone but myself for that, believe me. I spend hours staring at work wondering how I can make it better so that it will meet some kind of thirst people have. But the longer I do that, the more the well dries, and the harder it is to get the next bit from it. I just have to keep giving up, and going back. And in the meantime I feel like a fool and a hack who no one reads. The vicious cycle has become, at this point, more of a gear in the machine, something unbreakable, something that interlocks with something else, and something that could not fit in anywhere else.
The only thing I can write with ease is something like this, writing about writing, because “writing” is all I think about. Chiefly, I keep wondering how it is that I am a “writer” when it feels like what I do isn’t so much writing as scraping by on typed words. I know what people think of bloggers. Hell, I know what I think of them myself. I think: you know, what I got into this for was the meaning of words, being able to look into interesting things, tossing them out at the world and watching them boomerang back with full-throated reactions. Instead what I got was sitting around, feeling frustrated and jealous, never feeling like I could say the thing I wanted to say. And having nowhere to hide from myself.
Tags: michelle dean, the butter, writing
Michelle this is amazing.
This is the best piece I’ve read on The Toast this year. Incredible. And, from a fellow writer, so bloody familiar.
This hits home in a really amazing and awful way. I feel at once both very comforted and very sad. It feels strange to be miserable doing something you love, but there it is. Thank you for writing this.
Aw, dang, Michelle.
This is so good. I am not a writer and a lot of this is Too Real about why I don’t write. The fact that I don’t know if I could handle the criticism is a big part of it. I’m prepared to be (justly) criticized here if/when I mess up, but even that stresses me.
One of the things about being a writer (or, I imagine, any kind of creator whose work is exposed to the world) is that no matter what or how you write, someone will find a way to complain that you should have written something else, or written about something else, that you should have written about this thing in some different way, or even that you should feel a different way about the thing you’re discussing. For every single thing I’ve ever professionally published, there’s some reader — in the comments, on twitter, showing up in my inbox — who tells me that I should’ve done it differently, or chosen differently, or felt different.
It sounds smothering, but I find it remarkably freeing, because no matter what, someone is going to complain or dismiss my work based on their own perception of what it should be instead. When there’s no possible hope of pleasing everyone, I am utterly free to write what pleases me.
[eta: Let’s be clear: I’m not in the same league as, for example, Michelle Dean, either in the kind of writing I do at the moment or the amount of blowback I get from it. But so far, it’s been instructive to remember that no matter what I write, someone will be vocal about their problems with it, and there’s no compass but myself I can count on.]
My stomach hurts having read this. It’s gorgeous, terrible. Three years ago I got my MFA and a book deal and suffered a similar sort of breakdown. I spent two years in the most embarrassing paralysis. I couldn’t tell anyone how miserable and pathetic I was because holy shit what did I have to complain about, my lifelong dream was coming true.
I finally stopped, and then all was quiet, and then life made sense again. I was a person who could experience happiness, like before.
But what a terrible happy ending. I never finished my book. I have nothing to say at parties. I worry about what my infant daughter will think of me, when she’s old enough to understand what I didn’t do.
I’m hoping I still have time to redeem myself.
But I know you will go on to finish your book, you are an incredible writer. I’ve been inspired reading you over the years.
And I’m sorry to have turned this into something about myself but damn THIS GAVE ME FEELINGS.
Going to have a drink and cry a little now.
Your daughter will probably really respect having a parent who knows how to take care of themself and can experience happiness. Getting out of bad/unhealthy situations is all kinds of badass/courageous/impressive.
I wish I had had that to look up to, as a daughter. IT’S REALLY HARD TO DO WELL.
I remember when I loved concatenating words into strings of things. Now they mostly sit in a self-induced coma.
This was enjoyable.
Keep it up.
How about when you can’t write any more and, as a consequence, are able to hide from yourself? I can’t write anything longer than an internet comment these days and I feel like I don’t know myself any more.
“to look someone in the eye without actually listening”
Finally got busted on this one, apparently I agreed to do something? “I did not!” But there were witnesses 🙁
About two months ago, I had an epiphany. Sitting at a stoplight next to a Burger King, I realized I don’t have to be a writer. I’ve finished my book and gotten interest but I can’t commit my life to selling it because that means I’d have to write ANOTHER BOOK. And even though the next two books are in my brain, I don’t have the energy right now. In busy raising children-actively saving some, in fact-from depression and anxiety and I can’t do that if I’m in the writer spiral you’ve so eloquently described. Maybe later, but for now my self-worth has to be defined differently. Thanks for sharing your journey.
This is utterly amazing and absolutely terrifying.
This is exactly what I needed to read today. I appreciate your honesty, depth, and critique on internet culture and how it’s changed how we write. I wrote my first book in high school mostly to see if I could. I did, and then I tossed it, figuring I had all the time in the world to write another one. But the way writing has changed, and expectations around writing has changed in regards to the Internet has made me skeptical. I still write but I’m not excited by the idea of publishing, leaving me confused about the direction of my work.
Oh my goodness. I am feeling for you. The feeling of bailing yourself out of the well vs. scraping the bottom is so familiar; I don’t pretend to know exactly what you mean, because we are all by definition alone as writers, but you are communicating wonderfully here. I hope you know that even if not everything you write is exactly what you want it to be, you are producing beautiful work. Your “I” is very strong – I felt it and heard it today. Thank you for this.
Just wonderful.
Not a writer (other creative type), but this:
"And most days I cannot help but notice that no one wants to drink what little I’ve managed to collect, anyway. I think the struggle to pump it out is making it brackish. I do not blame anyone but myself for that, believe me. I spend hours staring at work wondering how I can make it better so that it will meet some kind of thirst people have. But the longer I do that, the more the well dries, and the harder it is to get the next bit from it."
Wow does that hit home. This piece is great. Painfully great.
This sounds like clinical depression or anxiety to me. I would definitely consider talking to a doctor or counselor. It’s hard to recognize the signs when you’re in it. Some of the commenters here are describing signs of depression or anxiety too, IMO.
It’s normal to be affected by criticism, but coping mechanisms should kick in. One of the hallmark signs of depression is not finding pleasure in things you used to.
I really needed to read this. Thank you for expressing so well that which I have found almost impossible to explain. I'm saving this piece because I know that I will need to read it again, and again, and again. It will not be forgotten.
Ahh this was so perfect. It was so true!
Especially waiting and waiting and waiting to be perfect. I still feel like I’m making missteps, but I’m at least showing those missteps to people.
Ahh this was so perfect. It was so true!
Especially waiting and waiting and waiting to be perfect. I still feel like I'm making missteps, but I'm at least showing those missteps to people.
Ask Polly, last weekend:
“As a writer, you get the most discouraged when you’re overly focused on the finish line. If you view writing as just something taxing to push out of your way each day, your writing often starts to suck or you can’t write at all. And then your piece is published or your book comes out, and nobody gives a shit. I know you think I’m just being negative and melodramatic when I write that, but every writer who read that sentence — even the very successful ones — is nodding in agreement. Books rarely make a splash that’s commensurate with the work that went into them. Even that rare author who’s had a book that DID make a splash has two or three books under her belt that didn’t do shit.
You have to love the process, because that’s all there is. You have to wake up and make your tea and sit down to a blank page and start writing, without knowing whether it’ll be a day when words flow freely or a day when words won’t cooperate. You have to savor the uncertainty of half-finished, barely formed thoughts and mind puzzles. In order to mature into a good writer, you have to commit to this uncertain way of life, and you have to savor it. If you don’t savor it, the finish line — getting a book published, having your work read by an audience — will feel disappointing and inadequate. It might even feel that way regardless.”
Ask Polly, last weekend:
"As a writer, you get the most discouraged when you're overly focused on the finish line. If you view writing as just something taxing to push out of your way each day, your writing often starts to suck or you can't write at all. And then your piece is published or your book comes out, and nobody gives a shit. I know you think I'm just being negative and melodramatic when I write that, but every writer who read that sentence — even the very successful ones — is nodding in agreement. Books rarely make a splash that's commensurate with the work that went into them. Even that rare author who's had a book that DID make a splash has two or three books under her belt that didn't do shit.
You have to love the process, because that's all there is. You have to wake up and make your tea and sit down to a blank page and start writing, without knowing whether it'll be a day when words flow freely or a day when words won't cooperate. You have to savor the uncertainty of half-finished, barely formed thoughts and mind puzzles. In order to mature into a good writer, you have to commit to this uncertain way of life, and you have to savor it. If you don't savor it, the finish line — getting a book published, having your work read by an audience — will feel disappointing and inadequate. It might even feel that way regardless."
I don’t usually wade into this corner of the internet, as I know it’s not for me, but here I am anyhow, and the irony is bewildering: Woman writes blog post about grappling with her aspirations to perfection; commenters queue up to tell her it’s “perfect,” “utterly amazing,” “exactly what I needed to read today,” and “so perfect.” Hmm! Meanwhile, no one in the echo chamber seems inclined to question whether perfection is an attainable thing vs. a delusion. Hmmm.
There’s something else I don’t get here: The author’s assertion that “if you want to make a living as a writer these days, you must produce at volume. You have to write at a pace which is against all self-editing, careful sentences, complex thought, everything short of an immediate reaction.” I don’t disagree that that’s true; it’s my impression as well. What I don’t understand is why this appeals to her as a way to make a living. Why not work on slow, careful writing on mornings and weekends and do something else to pay the rent? Merriam-Websters defines careerism as ‘the policy or practice of advancing one’s career often at the cost of one’s integrity.’ It isn’t mandatory.
I’ve never commented on a blog. I’m not even a writer. But I do know what it’s like to try and make a living creatively. The value of the effort isn’t what it used to be; It’s tougher than ever to get paid. Blunt, glib criticism is common, and it takes so much energy to process it, even it its complimentary. I’m taking a sabbatical. Working less. I’m taking a class in something I don’t even have a chance at being good at, just to focus and be challenged on something completely different. It’s really fantastic. It’s kicking my ass. It’s brought relief, perspective, a welcome rest for the tired half of my mind while learning something new with what I heave left, just for the sake of doing it. Funny, these are the feelings I used to get from my creative work, when I owned it. You completely owned what you wrote up above. I hope it felt good to get it down. I get it. I’m glad I read it. Thank you.
I've never commented on a blog. I'm not even a writer. But I do know what it's like to try and make a living creatively. The value of the effort isn't what it used to be; It's tougher than ever to get paid. Blunt, glib criticism is common, and it takes so much energy to process it, even it its complimentary. I'm taking a sabbatical. Working less. I'm taking a class in something I don't even have a chance at being good at, just to focus and be challenged on something completely different. It's really fantastic. It's kicking my ass. It's brought relief, perspective, a welcome rest for the tired half of my mind while learning something new with what I heave left, just for the sake of doing it. Funny, these are the feelings I used to get from my creative work, when I owned it. You completely owned what you wrote up above. I hope it felt good to get it down. I get it. I'm glad I read it. Thank you.
Your composed work capacity is incredibly appreciative. You have indicated about it in clear way.
Your composed work capacity is incredibly appreciative. You have indicated about it in clear way.