Advice To A Struggling Writer

I just want you to know. It's going to be okay.

There’s not a day goes by I don’t hear from a struggling writer. As they come in, I put them in a folder to peck away at. Between clients and databases, work, writing and housework, yardwork and publications. Right now, 166 emails in that folder.

Sometimes, they seem so simple. Like all the people who write to say they don’t have enough time to write. I always commiserate. Tell them I never have time either, I have to make time. But I get it. To the bones, I get it.

I remember when Dad was dying in my house, one day at a time, while I watched. Sometimes I’d get up at 5 in the morning, write in the dark because if I didn’t write I’d go crazy. So tired I’d cry myself to sleep. And I get how hard that is.

And I get it. When you have to make time, something’s going to pay the price. Something isn’t going to get done. And sometimes it’s just you pays the price.

Here’s the most common one. I get this one every day. Writers reach out to say it’s hard to think of something to write about that hasn’t been written about a thousand times. Which is true. There’s nothing hasn’t been written about a thousand times.

And I get what they’re really saying. The fear behind those words. Saying what if I write about this thing — and it’s not good enough. What if it’s not as good as other people who’ve written about this thing. I understand that, too. And after facing down that fear a hundred times, it starts to ease up a little. As your voice gets stronger.

One woman undid me.

She said her struggle as a writer is that she’s suffered neurological damage to her hands and it’s physically painful to write. So she either suffers by keeping her words inside. Or she suffers physical pain to get them out.

I wanted to run. Across the miles and just hug her. Wrap my arms round her and say I’m sorry. Because sometimes that’s all there is. A hug and someone to care. Sometimes that’s all there needs to be.

I’ve been struggling. For months.

Woke up one morning in July and the words were gone. Just. Blank.

It was a rough time on Medium. Boost was wonky and nominators who were used to getting most nominations accepted where getting whacked. I had editors reaching out. Saying please submit something. I need a sure thing. But I wasn’t a sure thing. I was dry. And the longer it went on, the harder it got.

So I told myself the story about Hemingway. Sitting in front of the fireplace peeling tiny oranges and tossing the peels info the fire. Watching the little bursts of flame and color and telling himself you have always written before and you will write again.

Told myself that. You have always written and you will write again.

One day the words came back. And they were bad.

And honestly? I don’t know if they were bad, but they felt bad. I’d pound out words every day. Let it sit a couple of hours, couple of days, look again. Sounded like an amateur, to my own eyes. Flogging myself with criticism.

Here’s the worst one. Worst insult I hurl at myself. Self indulgent.

Don’t know why that monster looms so large and I’m sure if I chased it down, down the dark alleys and through the hallowed halls of time, I’d find footprints going back to my childhood. Because that’s how monsters do.

Sometimes, the only way to deal with our monsters is to shine a light on them. Put them in the spotlight. Introduce them to the world. Not because it vanquishes them, but because maybe it lets one other person out there feel a little less alone.

So if you’re struggling, I want you to know this.

It’s going to be okay.

I don’t know what your struggle is. Hell, I don’t even know what my own struggle is. But I know it’s going to be okay. One day the sky will crack open. Or your heart will, or mine. Or some other problem will come along, make this one tuck its tail between it’s legs, skulk away in favor of some other problem whose turn it is up to bat.

Because that’s how nature works. The tide comes in and the tide goes out. The sun goes down, but it rises again. Dark takes its turn with light. Everything in nature is cyclic and no reason we shouldn’t be the same way. We are nature, too.

Here’s what else Hemingway said. When he was tossing orange peels in the fire, watching the bursts of flame and color.

Just write one true sentence.

Write the truest sentence you know. So many true sentences come to mind. You’re not alone. Someone else is experiencing the exact same thing at the exact same time. And out there in the world, someone out there cares. Maybe more than you know. And sometimes, hugs are all there are and believe it or not, they do help.

All true sentences.

But here’s maybe the truest sentence I know. It’s going to be okay.

P.S. If you enjoyed this post, I also write on Medium.

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