Lately I’ve been having a crisis of confidence—like imposter syndrome, but worse.
I’d been reading books by writers I admire, and something unexpected happened. Instead of making me eager to write, they made me painfully aware of everything wrong with my own WIPs. I can recognize beautiful writing in other people’s work. I can’t recognize it in mine.
So I stopped writing, which only made the feelings louder. It’s hard to improve at something you’re too intimidated to practice.
Then, over twenty-four hours of doomscrolling instead of writing, I watched three interviews with creatives I admire (two songwriters and a comedian) all saying some version of the same thing. Once, it was interesting, even a little inspiring. Three times, it was a push I couldn’t ignore.
One songwriter taught herself to write songs by writing songs—following the structure of songs she loved, one after another, learning something new each time.
The comedian challenged himself to upload a brand-new stand-up set to YouTube every week for a year. Week after week: write, perform, post.
The other songwriter said she realized she had everything to gain by trying. She was already broke before her career took off. If the songs worked, wonderful. If they didn’t, she’d still walk away with more experience than she’d had the day before.
Three different creatives, three different careers, the same message repeated until it finally broke through the noise in my head.
Keep making things.
It reminded me of something Ray Bradbury said: “”You cannot write fifty-two bad short stories in a row.”” The first time I heard that quote, I laughed and thought, challenge accepted. Yesterday it landed differently.
I’d been treating every piece of writing as a test of whether I was good enough to keep writing. Bradbury’s point is that it isn’t a test at all. The only way to get better at making things is to keep making them; every story, every page, every attempt teaches you something the last one couldn’t.
Somewhere along the way, I’d started believing the writers I admire got good before they started creating. Those interviews reminded me: They got good because they kept creating.
So I’ve stopped asking whether I’m talented enough to write the book I want to write. I’m asking something simpler.
Did I write today?
That’s a question worth answering.
Whether your creative work is writing, painting, baking, photography, quilting, or something else entirely, keep making things. Your fiftieth attempt will know things your first one never could.
Written by Sarah Olesky, Associate Editor of Daybreak Press