My Deepest Insecurity
I hated English in high school, and I read as little as possible. Although I was good speller back then, I could barely construct a simple sentence. This all changed in college. After taking my first literature class freshman year, I knew that literature was meant for me to study. I started taking literature seriously as well as creative writing. I won first prize for a short story contest I entered one year, and the next year won second place for a poem I wrote. But I’ve always been insecure about my writing and always have doubts about how good my writing is.
In some ways, I’ve always been insecure, and I have required constant acknowledgement for the things I have accomplished. When I grew up in the fifties and sixties, we were seen as weak, selfish and self-centered if we sought out praise very often.
Now, even preschools have graduation and children are praised for almost everything, even for doing the easiest of chores. I’m not sure which is worse - too little praise or too much praise - but I suppose not being recognized for accomplishments can lead to insecurity.
Of all my insecurities, the worst by far is my doubt about my creative writing ability. For years, I never read the creative writing of others for fear their writing was better than mine. Whenever I had a poem published in an anthology, I didn’t read the work of others, for fear my poems didn’t measure up. I’ve now forced myself to overcome this insecurity, but my self-doubt still reveals itself in many ways. When I get a lousy review, it devastates me. Once I got a horrible - and unfair - review for my book of short stories called, The Extraordinary Journey of Uriel Fox, and I put the book away for over a year. It’s only now that I’ve thought about marketing it again.
I suppose this insecurity really began when I was ill. No matter where I was -except jail - I always had access to typing paper and pencils. I’d often write in the evenings when it was relatively quiet no matter what institution I was in. I believe at that time writing really helped me with my creativity, and the last thing I would have wanted was others criticizing my highly subjective writing that only made sense to me.
I guess I’ve never joined any writing groups because another person’s opinion of my work, I would have taken it too seriously. This has in some ways stymied my progress as writer, but it has protected my sensitive ego. I don’t know if this will change dramatically, but maybe I can learn to be more open-minded, so I wouldn’t take things to heart. I do know, however, if I had to take a lot of criticism, I never would have followed through with writing to the degree that I have.
Now, when I’m asked to read the creative writing of others, I really don’t want to because instead of graciously agreeing to read their work, I do it half-heartedly and feel that I should have more of my own work read by others. In addition, I can never really tell how good the author’s writing is because I secretly don’t want it to be good. It’s a terrible attitude, but it is what it is.
So, now that I’m on my seventies, I know I need to be more supportive when I read the work of others, and I forget about “helpful” criticism all together by focusing on the positive elements of the writing of others. This emerging attitude has helped me feel good about myself and is, I think, helpful to other authors.
I’d like to finish today with a poem I wrote a while ago called “The Creative Impulse,” taken from my book, The End Justifies the Pain. Although it’s not about insecurities associated with writing, it does point out how deeply imbedded the creative instinct can be.
The Creative Impulse
A verse may come rumbling like thunder,
or lightning may streak through some slumbering thought.
A rhyme can appear and look like a penny
that nobody found or thought to pick up.
Sometimes the poem feels like a fever
that never lets go not even for sleep.
Like a fire that burns and ceaselessly grows,
the poem itself must put out the flames.
A poem can also bring wisdom and closure
to thoughts and beliefs that still cling to life.
Like a late evening shower, the verses stream down
and point out the feelings that hide in the heart.
Even recordings that play deep within
can be seen in the poems the poet creates.
Yet once in a while, the wind may blow in,
and words feel like magical spirits.
Writing themselves across every line,
the words form the poem unaltered.
But mainly the words come through like a puzzle,
and memories seep in, awaken, and stir.
However, too often the watching and waiting
are unending searches for words that are wrong.
(Please remember these are my own ideas, and I’m not attempting to persuade anyone to change theirs.)
Quotes:
“It stands to the everlasting credit of science that by acting on the human mind it has overcome man's insecurity before himself and before nature.” – Albert Einstein
“A lack of transparency results in distrust and a deep sense of insecurity.” – Dalai Lama
“The task we must set for ourselves is not to feel secure, but to be able to tolerate insecurity.” – Erich Fromm
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