“I’m Just Not That Good A Writer”

It’s something I hear from so many clients, students, and friends. It’s as if there were a prototypical writer out there, and when they measure themselves against this vision of perfection, they fall short in terms of literary skill.

There are real writers out there, and then there is me and you.

Most of the time this self-doubt does not have to do with content. Content is what it is; either you went to jail, or you can write about it convincingly, or you have to look elsewhere for your storyline. All of us are survivors of something, and if we narrowly escaped with our life while having our image of ourselves redressed, well then, there’s your plot.

If if doesn’t have to do with content, does it have to do with structure? Is that why so many committed and talented individuals suffer over their writing? Not really. Most people don’t assume that they should know structure, especially since aesthetics ceased to be a major branch of philosophy. There are 10,000 words that could be inserted here on this crime that was committed, and how The Book Architecture Method seeks to be a part of the renaissance of the logic of art. Another time, I’m sure.

No, believe it or not, the reason for our low self-esteem comes down to one proofreading mark, wc = word choice. Think about it: it’s in description where writers really start to scramble. They torture themselves over adjectives. They use an online thesaurus.

What would the point be using a word that you had to look up as opposed to the one that naturally occurred in your lexicon?

Let’s take an example: the word “rock.” We can get fancy. My twelve-year-old is studying for her science test and could tell you what an igneous rock is, and what characteristics would make it extrusive. I don’t know those words; does that make it good writing?

What if I am driving down the highway late at night in New Hampshire, and suddenly the entire Earth appears split open where they unrolled the ribbon of highway? The rock formations on either side of the shoulder seem so substantive in the moonlight, they approach near total permanence. Should I call them monolithic, after I look up what that means? What if I have just realized the essential quality of rock for the first time? What would be the matter with the word, “hard?” 

Ending One:

So, please. The next time you are between a rock and a hard place to describe, don’t grasp for expressions that will only ring inauthentically. Slow things down; find your way inside it the experience by concentrating on one sensual detail. You might press both hands against a mighty boulder and find that, at that moment, the stars come out. 

Ending Two:

The woman I’ve chosen to spend my life with just said to me:

“You’ve helped me fulfill all my dreams. You are my rock.”

How are you going to improve on that?