It’s no secret here that my dream is to someday become a published author.
If I was going to take a brush and paint a picture of what I dream my future will look like it would be writing a bestseller. It would be me walking into a bookstore and seeing my book on the shelves. It would be winning awards and selling a million copies. It would be my stories being devoured by readers who want to feel less alone on this bizarre, often tragic planet. And in the final corner of this canvas, I paint myself in solitude, hunched over my laptop, spending every day writing from sunrise to sunset, losing myself in worlds of my own creation.
But even with these big dreams, whenever I looked at my past writing, I cringed. And a single sentence flashed, strobe-like, in my mind: I’m a bad writer. I’m a bad writer. I’m a bad writer.
It would happen as I would read through my old work — the words I spent days, weeks, months agonising over suddenly felt like I wrote them when I was 5-years-old and had no control over the twenty-six letters of the alphabet. I’d get so badly in my own head that I couldn’t imagine my stories someday sitting alongside great authors like V. E. Schwab and Leigh Bardugo, or anyone else whose work I devoured like a wild beast. I’m sure at some point these authors had felt the same feelings I have. We’re all human after all and I’m not special for ruminating. But it’s hard to remember that when you’re drowning in your own self-doubt.
In the past when these feelings snaked up from the inside out, I’d push them back down, down, down. I’d let them say their hi, hello but then just keep on writing anyway. But, admittedly, there were other times where they would send me into a spiral and I would stop writing cold turkey, sometimes for weeks or months at a time, convinced that my dreams were unattainable.
And it was during my last downward spiral where I decided to avoid looking at my old work altogether.
I was sick of feeling self-conscious or paralysed by embarrassment. It was like those emotions rising up were an internal confirmation that I was, indeed, a bad writer. And if that was true that meant my childhood dream was a complete and total waste. It was something that would never ever be realised no matter how much I tried. So I rationalised that if I stopped reading my own writing then maybe what I felt would fade. That I would start thinking I was good, maybe even great if I was lucky. But after not reading any of my own words for so long the truth soon became clear: I constantly and overwhelmingly feel like a bad writer. Not just when I read over my past work. I feel like I write bad words, bad pieces, bad books all the time.
But I’ve said this before, writing this newsletter has made me more introspective — and I feel more inclined to explore these feelings rather than wait to be devoured by them again. Alas, this piece was born!
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When I started really considering where these feelings came from, I came to two possible conclusions.
The first is that writing is so incredibly important to me.
Nobody in my real life would call me a sentimental person — I’m definitely the furthest from one. But writing has always held a special place in my life. The fact that I can string words together to spin my own stories and create entire worlds that have never existed feels like real magic. It’s an intoxicating feeling. And that’s something I’d never give up, it’s too deeply engrained in me at this point. I sleep, I wake up, I eat, I write. I need it to survive.
But the trouble when something becomes so important to me is that I want to be good at it. No, scratch that, I want need to be perfect. I always have to do things in extremes — there’s no such thing as balance for me, even with writing. I can’t just be good, I have to be perfect. But the problem with that is perfection doesn’t exist. It’s a journey with no real destination.
So I never achieve the masterpiece I started out envisioning, I’m a bad writer flashes into my head and I’m terribly harsh on myself because of that. Then I force myself to get up and try again. The cycle continues. I’m a mouse on a wheel. I don’t know how to make it stop.
But maybe now that I know this I can start finding ways to free myself.
And the second conclusion is that I have a lot of self-doubt.
I was thinking about this the most when I considered why I think I’m a bad writer. Where does this self-doubt come from? Why do I so severely lack the confidence in my own work?
My best guess is that for me writing was once a solitary practice. But now with an audience on this platform who reads my work every week (I love you guys immensely!), and writing a book I want to traditionally publish, I feel so exposed. Like I’m walking around naked. I’m no longer writing for myself anymore and it feels like I suddenly have so many critical eyes on me, waiting to sink their teeth into me and tear my words apart — which is very much like tearing apart my very core as a human being. This makes me doubt myself. A lot. And how do I combat this? I tell myself I’m a bad writer. Because if I say my writing is terrible first then it will be less devastating, less soul-crushing, when somebody else calls my writing bad.
Or at least I tell myself so. It’s like I wear my own criticisms like chainmail, a forged armour to protect myself. If I wrap myself up in my own terrible insults, if I hold onto I’m a bad writer like a shield, then the comments from others won’t penetrate.
But to be honest I’m exhausted from forging all this so-called protection. I think, at this point, I’m only damaging myself when I need to be my biggest supporter.
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So, I’ve concluded that these feelings come from perfectionism and self-doubt. Where in the world do I go from here then? Well, at the moment, I’m focusing on writing pieces for Substack. I give myself a deadline and force myself to press publish, even when the work doesn’t feel perfect. That helps with my all-consuming perfectionism. And the lovely community I have created here, who connect with my words week after week, has helped me so much with overcoming my self-doubt. Thank you all from the very depths of my soul. But I don’t want to become some kind of Tinkerbell who only survives based on the applause she receives. I also want to seek out other strategies that don’t solely rely on the validation of others.
But the crux of all this: how do I stop being a bad writer? Is that even possible?
I know that if I want to achieve my publishing dreams that I need to keep writing, keep sharing. Because even with all the self-doubt and self-sabotage and perfectionism I know that to become a better writer you simply need to write. There is no other way around it. I need to practice, practice, practice. Bad words will eventually lead to good words.
In fact, something I’ve been reminding myself as I publish anything new onto my newsletter is that not everything I write needs to be perfect. I’m learning that with every piece I write, I’m actually growing into the writer I want to be. I’m being cracked open and rearranged. In a good way. So I say to myself every time I press publish: “This piece might not be the best, but it’s bringing me one step closer to the writer I want to be.” And this can definitely be applied for when I work on my book. With every draft the book is becoming better and better, it’s one step closer to the book I want it to be.
Sometimes continuing to write — even when the self-doubt creeps in, even when the perfectionism knocks on the door, even when I’m a bad writer flashes in my mind — is easier said than done. My inner critic can be ferocious and somedays I just want to pull my hair out. But I need to continue writing anyway because the only other option I have is to give up.
Understanding that has made me realise the most important thing out of all of this: that regardless of if I get published and regardless of if I’m a bad writer, I want to always write. It’s my passion, it’s what feeds my hunger. I can’t imagine a world where I’m not expressing myself through the written word. It must be a sad one.
And maybe that means I’m not a bad writer after all. Maybe it means I’m a good writer, deep down — because I’m refusing to give up, I’m continuing to dream and I’m writing, writing, always still writing.
It was cathartic writing this stream of consciousness — to dig around inside the very depths of my soul and pull out these thoughts and feelings that are constantly swirling around inside of me. It felt more like a diary entry, sometimes making sense, sometimes not. But I wanted it to be raw.
Do you ever feel like a bad writer? Do you sometimes look at yourself not giving up as a sign that you’re a good one? I’d love to hear your thoughts too.
Until next time,
- Madeline
Have you ever read something and thought "this is really good" and then discovered that it was something you wrote and then forgot about? I don't think its up to us to judge whether we're good writers or not because I don't think we can distance ourselves enough from what we do.
I look at other writers and JK Rowling is a good example for me. I think she has a fantastic imagination and she creates amazing stories (The Harry Potter ones anyway, I could never get into her other work), but I think she's a dreadful writer. But no-one could call her unsuccessful.
And for what its worth, this is the first piece of yours that I've read and I think its very well written.
Your love for writing is evident in every word. This passion is your greatest asset. Every writer, even the greats you admire, has grappled with self-doubt and feelings of inadequacy. The idea of creating a "perfect" piece is a myth. Imperfections are part of the process - and I loved reading your piece, Madeline! 🧡