Writing as an Act of Bravery
January has been a month that felt like a year. That’s all I can muster to say about it. But I am not without hope. I have my community, and I have my writing, and I hope to have some exciting things in store this year despite, or because of, everything going to shit. Thank you for being here, and I hope that wherever you are, you are safe and you are loved.
The writing community talks about the bravery it takes to send your work into the world. Sharing with beta readers, hitting that submit or publish button the first time—heck, the first 50 times—is nerve-racking. What I hear talked about less is the bravery in writing itself, and why (especially now) that is so crucial to remember.
When people first sit down to write a book, a lot of them think it will be easy. We string words together all the time; we write for work and school; generally, writers are also readers, and we look at a book and think ‘I bet I could do that.’ We quickly realize there’s more to it than we thought. There is a lot of effort that goes into crafting a story, not just in stringing words together, but having characters with meaningful growth, creating a plot that makes sense and scenes that drive that plot forward, and piecing all of that together over tens of thousands of words and months of work is hard.
Lots of people reach this point and give up. If you persevered through that first instance of “Oh my god, I’m not cut out for this” (and the many, many instances after that), it’s because you were brave enough to say “I will learn.” Because there was a story living in your head that would not leave you alone until it was put on paper, and you’ve continued to come back to the page, time and again.
Why is that? What drives you to write? I’ll take a wild guess that it’s probably not money. There are certainly many other things demanding our time and attention.
For me, writing is a processing tool. I watch my characters overcome their flaws and solve their problems, sometimes (often accidentally) similar to the ones I’m having, and that gives me the courage and hope that I can do it too. Maybe you identify with this, or you’re writing about something you have already overcome, and you want to tell a story that will make people going through the same thing feel seen and understood. Or you want to entertain people, make them laugh, make them cry, amaze them with your creativity.
Whether you’ve been aware of it or not, all of these ‘whys’ boil down to the same thing: you are putting pieces of yourself onto the page for other people to see. The things you love. The things that fill you with fear or wonder. When I read a book by someone I know, I feel like I know them better—or at the very least, how their mind works. And that’s a beautiful thing. It’s a moment of connection we don’t get in daily interaction or even through other forms of media. And it’s a little scary to be that vulnerable, even through the filter of a character with magic powers or laser swords.
This is why it hurts so much when our work is rejected. We pour out our souls for months or years, only for someone to say ‘Sorry, not the right fit for me at this time.’ I know this sucks; I’ve heard it hundreds of times over the last several years.
But there is a way forward: stop caring what people think. Easier said than done, I know. But if we start writing solely for the market or trying to cram who we are into a shape we think more people will find pleasing, we will eventually give up. Because it won’t feel the same. It won’t bring us the same spark of joy as when we first started, when there was nothing standing between us and the page and we could be our most complete, authentic selves.
When we write what excites us, that excitement is contagious, and sharing our work or marketing becomes an exercise in finding the people who are excited by the same things we are. When we write what excites us, we write for ourselves first—for the worlds we want to see, and for the people we want to become. Every time we sit down to write and leave a bit of ourselves on the page, it is an act of bravery. And it’s an act of hope, that by being our truest selves we can leave the world a little better than we found it.
Courage is a hard thing to hold onto, especially in times like this. And there will be days ahead when we can’t do it alone. Find your community, wherever and whenever you can. Start here, if you need to. It’s crucial to not let ourselves be silenced, to remain true to ourselves, and to let the world know that we are not going anywhere. Together, we can raise our voices, make our art, and create magic with our words. Together, we can be fearless.