Breaking Through

I haven’t finished a story in over a decade.

Not a gleaming start for a writing blogger. Blog entries, I have plenty. But finished short stories? Nada. Novels? Zilch. So I started asking myself why.

Part of it is the Red Dot syndrome I talked about before, but there’s something deeper and more insidious. It’s good old fear.

As any student of great literature, I’ve read some amazing stuff. Stories that altered my view of the world. Writing styles that made my mind fizz like the foam of a fresh soda. Books that I’ve read over and over for the simple joy of getting lost in them. One I reread immediately after finishing it the first time round. Books that made me wonder how the author lives with all those dazzling fireworks careening around in his or her head. Characters that I mourned like close friends. And some whose demise caused heartfelt cheering.

And then I look at my own writing.

Stunted, shallow, formulaic swill. Why do I even try?

It’s not that bad. But compared to (insert name of literary genius here), it’s less than splendid.

Then one day (ok, yesterday) after hearing it a zillion times, the phrase “Comparison is the thief of joy” hit a few of the right binaries in my head. I’d been comparing myself to Austen and Dickens and Lahiri and all these other authors and of course my writing is crap in comparison. But the point is not to put my stories next to those of a published and celebrated author and despair. The point is to write, and let the writing polish the roughnesses away.

But what really got me was when a painter explained that her final product wasn’t achieved whole and at once, but was the cumulative result of dozens if not hundreds of mistakes and rough drafts. That’s a lot of chances to say “I suck; I give up.” But she didn’t. I don’t remember who she was, but I’m glad I read the article.

I have been afraid that my work isn’t on par with my favorite authors and is therefore rotten and unworthy of submitting. Hell, not even submitting, just finishing. Not having perfect work spring forth from my mind unbidden made me think I had no talent at all. And while there are those whose talent does reach that effortless level, they are not the only ones with talent period. And even the greatest literary geniuses had editors. And critics.

So, what’s holding you back? Comparison?  Try incorporating some of the author’s style into your own just for fun. Fear? Fight it. Write anyway. And have someone give you an honest, gentle critique of it. Learn from it. Improve. Can’t focus on one story? Try devoting a specific day or amount of time on the story and do nothing aside from writing on that story. Give yourself a deadline for the story and stick to it.

I say all this, and I’m learning how to do it myself. It’s still a little scary, but it’s better than measuring out my life in story stumps.