This creative competitive race is between me... and me
Yesterday, on Father's Day, my own paternal figure voiced an idea I have mixed feelings about. And yet, I can't get it out of my head.
You need context, don't you? I was regaling my family with my morning routine: awaken without an alarm, brush and stuff, coffee-making, soul-searching, which is subsequently followed by a blissful 2-4 hours of unhindered writing time. Whether that's self-editing my own work, revising a short story, reading and critiquing for a friend (or classmate for my current fiction class), and overall just letting myself be absorbed into creative flow. And here's what elicited the comment. I said, "I enjoy this. I'm happiest in the morning when I'm all alone in the living room, writing, thinking, and just pursuing my creative aspirations." The response I received is this: "You think you're enjoying it. But really, you're just driven and ambitious. What is driving your so-called enjoyment is the pursuit of greatness. Of acknowledgement. Of competing with all the other faceless writers waking up early around the world to write the next great short story or the future bestselling novel."
Of course, none of that was said verbatim. I massaged it a bit. It sounds eloquent, doesn't it? But the notion that someone, someone whom I love in my family, questioned my own mental capacity to accurately identify and describe what brings me joy, jarred my sense of reality. I know what brings me happiness. I am wholly owning when my body and mind feel relax and at ease. I don't need anyone else projecting their own insecurities and quirks onto me. Even if they did raise me.
Despite the fiercely independent and defensive side of me ("what do you know about what goes inside my head, anyway?!" I wanted to shout), I can't shake the feeling that there is some kernel of truth, a wee nugget of wisdom in this concept.
My entire life, I've held myself to the highest standards. Nothing is good enough. An A should be an A+ and second place is not first. I've never been perfect or flawless in my grades nor in my track meets or dance competitions, yet I still strive for the top slot, the creme de la creme acknowledgement of "best" and "award-winning" and magnificent. And I don't plan on ever stopping. It does drive me. But when I sit down to write every morning (and believe you me, some mornings, the words just do not come out and I tinker with ideas and ruminate on revision suggestions from agents I'm in talks with) I don't believe I'm in competition with anyone. Not the unseen competitors who are vying for the same agents' attention and the same genre quota for the top 5 publishers. The only person I'm competing with, is me.
Because I want to get better at writing. Feedback from my peers and teachers has shown me that I'm more than capable of learning, even in this third decade of my life. And not just learning, but applying new techniques and skills and feedback to create something stronger. More eloquent. More beautiful. At least, to me.
Our lecture in this week's fiction class (online, of course) centered on the notion of writing for pleasure versus writing for external validation (aka, solely writing for readers). Some remarked on my comment that writing is always for the reader. And I still beg (shout) to differ. I am enjoying it. I feel so much more at ease with myself and the fellow human beings I interact with in my personal life and in my day job (again via Zoom because this is 2020 and reality is a strange, strange fellow) after a morning of writing.
Do I still apply to contests and residencies? Of course. Am I querying agents with my novel? Certainly. Is the submission process to literary magazines something I spend an inordinate amount of timing thinking about? You bet your blog-reading ass it is. But I'm doing it because it's fun. At least it is for me.
The only person I need to worry about is myself. I hope you do the same as well. Write for yourself, or write for readers. Get lost in the editing process. Revel in your own race. And don't let anyone else out there tell you how you feel.
Because if you're only racing yourself, you're the only witness to the journey. And you're the sole judge of your progress, your abilities, and your happiness.
