I’ve been invited to do a reading during the Edinburgh Fringe (details to be announced) — a five minute slot. That’s shorter than anything I’ve got, so I have to write some fresh fiction. I’ve been so focused on creating DIY Book podcasts; I haven’t written anything of my own in ages.
As I contemplate what I could present, the old worries creep in: What if I suck? This is another chance to establish myself here, but what can I do that’ll typify me and impress everyone?
Happily, I know enough at this point to recognise these thoughts for what they are — just stupid fear and wrong-headed priorities. These are easy to pick up, as there’s so much pressure on writers now to constantly think about marketing, selling, and being promotional. But, oh right, the value in what we do begins and ends with telling stories — which we can’t do when we’re thinking about product and effect rather than process, heart, and having fun.
The solution?
- Ask the world. While I’m waiting for a chance to work on this, I can put the question out there: “What story do I want to write?” Like a cat slinking off to catch ‘gifts’ for me, my subconscious often brings me better material than I could ever deliberately manufacture.
- Don’t try to solve the problem on the fly. I can’t get this written while doing copywriting, washing the dishes, or lying in bed. In that state of mind — half-attending to it — I can’t get any deeper than the surface concern about “What will they think?” Worry is what we do when we feel the need to take action but can’t.
- Give yourself time. A corollary of the last point: I know from experience that a project like this needs dedicated time. Then I can get my head into it the way I need to and not be trying to rush right to the part where it’s finished. If this piece will be worth listening to, it’s worth taking time for.
- Give your head a shake. I’ve got to get out a big piece of paper and tip the contents of my brain into a mind-map. If I dredge up the the deep-sea worries and name them, they will die in the sunlight. The fear they contain is completely unconnected to — and unconcerned with — fact. With them out of the way, I can brainstorm possible stories and remind myself of all the good reasons I like to do this work.
- Look behind you! Um, it’s not like this is the first time I’ve done this! The fear likes to obscure the past and make me forget that I’ve created things before and that I know how to do this work. It’s just trying to protect me from change — any change, good or bad. I’m grateful to have that radar, but it’s not useful here. I can derive the confidence I need from looking back at what I’ve already done. The best part of that work came out of my being vulnerable, available, and true to what was inside me to give, not from any attempt to produce an effect. Weird how fear always tells me to vivisect my work and remove all the dangerous, weird, and personal stuff — the things people actually like best.
- Make it a gift, not a test. If I can disconnect from wants and expectations, I’ll find the generosity of spirit to pull something up from the bottomless well of creativity and give it freely to the listeners as a gift. No attachment, no manipulating them so they’ll give me something — people sense that and hate it, ’cause we get it all day long in the form of fake stories called advertising. This is a story to be told around a public campfire; you can’t do anything with the sparks, but they can make the night and connect us to the stars.
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