The 11,898,672nd writer to be stymied by fear and self-doubt

When I was a senior in high school, I completed an application for a Scripps scholarship. I had been editor of my newspaper and worked as a stringer for a local weekly, and my journalism teacher urged me to apply for that prestigious award. As I was getting ready to mail the forms, my mother said to me: “There are thousands of other kids just like you out there mailing this application in. I don’t want you to get hurt, so don’t get your hopes up too high.” I thought about what she said and realized she was right. I couldn’t compete.

I’ve always wondered what would have happened if I would have believed in myself enough to mail that packet–if I would have won. I’ve won things since: beauty pageants and writing contests and jobs, for example. However I’ve always gone for the safe bet. For what seems achievable without too much sacrifice.

Lately, I’ve been reading blogs of literary agents and editors. It’s been on my mind for years now to write a novel. But not just to write it–to sell it, for good money. I’m not naive. I understand that everyone and his sister wants to write the great American novel and thinks s/he is capable and talented enough to do it. And maybe lucky enough, because from what I’ve read lately it seems that luck and persistence are perhaps more important than talent and training and capability.

I don’t know that I have it in me.

I can write the book, that I know, but I don’t know if I have it in me for what comes after you write it. Meaning, the query letters to agents, and the revision based on other people’s visions of what your story is, and the waiting. Of course, the rejection is what really motivates me to get started: One agent, when asked if a writer should give up trying to get representation for a novel after 30 or 40 rejections, replied that no one should give up or do serious revisions until their rejection pile is several hundred high. Wow, makes me want to jump right into that game.

So, am I afraid of the work (aka lazy), or just petrified by self-doubt? (I know, I know. I am officially the 11,898 672nd writer to be stymied by fear and self-doubt.)

A few weeks ago I talked with a woman who is at work on a novel–her fifth. “I can write them but I don’t seem to be able to sell them,” she told me. I’m sorry, what? You’ve written five novels? And none of them have sold? Why, I wanted to ask her, do you continue? But I already knew the answer: because she has to.

Which makes me wonder: Do I feel so compelled to write this long story that’s in my head about Jessie and Danielle and making family out of what you find that, on my deathbed, I’ll regret it if I don’t? Or am I remembering my proclamation in my Senior AP English class that I would one day be a famous (and rich) novelist.

I know that Jessie and Danielle want their story told, because they tell me so. Yes, I hear voices, which used to freak me out until a therapist told me that 35 is awfully old for schizophrenia to manifest, and suggested that the voices are characters who need me to give them life. That’s when I started writing short stories again.

While Jessie and Danielle’s story feels of utmost importance to me, I don’t want it to be my freshman effort.

I want it to be good. Scratch that: I want it to be excellent, and acclaimed. Those are big-word shoes to fill. I want it to sell, and for real money, and have a contract that includes marketing and blah, blah, blah and get on Oprah for having the biggest debut novel of the year.

(I tend to set incredibly achievable goals for myself as well.)

Maybe I need a starter novel, a trial run with a story that I don’t care so deeply about. It’s like when you’re learning to paint a room: You start out with walls not so many people may see, in case you completely screw them up. I don’t want to screw up Jessie and Danielle’s story. Or, maybe, once again I’m being stymied by my own self doubt and could choose to power through it.

I’ve been thinking about picking up another story I started where it left off–the handsome Brad Garrison coming to Lissie’s arts organization’s rescue with a large donation. I could turn it into a romance novel to build up callouses. Muscles, even. On second thought, this option could be the easier road, one that I’ll regret taking later. (Oh shut up, Mr. Frost. I know you’re right.) Tackling Jessie and Danielle’s story is a bigger stretch for me, and it’s been a long time since I’ve stretched myself.

Maybe I should stop reading the agents’ blogs, because doing so is making me seriously consider that I can’t compete. Because, if you recall, I don’t want to write a novel. I want to SELL novels I’ve written. Perhaps now is a good time to live in a land of fantasy and competing offers.

I’m finally in a relationship with someone who will give me the room and support I need to do the work I’ve always wanted to do. My mother no longer rules my life and my brain. My ability to do, or not to do, rests squarely on my shoulders with no one else to blame.

What’s stymieing you? And what are you going to do about it?