Does Every Writer Fear Setting Their Story Free?
I have bared my soul on stage. I have shared raw, honest, deeply personal stories on this blog. I have written countless flash fiction and short stories I present publicly.
And yet when I think of sharing my novel with anyone, a lump forms in my chest and immediate anxiety follows. So surprising that a project I want to share with everyone feels so precious, so fragile, so secret in its infantile stage. What is it about my novel that makes me so hesitant to shed light on it with anyone other than myself?
I’ve been working on this story for over a year. I had the idea in early 2018 and wrote the first draft and now the second is finished. Between fall of 2018 and now, a lot has delayed my progress but novel writing has no time limit so that isn’t a concern I have. I’ve shared with friends and family my ideas, the plot, characters, etc. I’ve shared excerpts in my newsletter (sign up below) and even one passage on Instagram. My friends and family are excited; they keep asking when can they read it in the most supportive and loving way that I am overwhelmed when I think about it.
And then I panic.
Thoughts come flooding in about the day I do let people read it. Whether it is my friends and family or beta readers that I don’t know personally who can read it without bias.
What if they don’t like it?
What if it is terrible?
What if it doesn’t make sense?
The characters are bad
The dialogue is awful
What if all this work and planning and writing is for nothing and its horrible and all this energy is wasted and I could have spent my time doing something else that would have earned a sweet, sweet victory?
I’m pretty sure all of the above is the essence of being a writer. I am certain there isn’t a writer alive who hasn’t felt these sentiments which is why there are millions of balled up pieces of paper from across the universe of words that will only see the inside of a trash bin. Carrie was almost one of them and thankfully, Tabitha King rescued her.
My novel doesn’t need to be rescued just yet. It is still in the beginning and I know these fears will always be there with any writing.
This novel is a piece of me. It is a massive dream I have had my entire life that I started to feed in the past few years and now it is alive and on a page and very, very real. I’ve been open with my emotions, on stage or in writing, but this piece isn’t like the others. I want it to be good. I want it to stick to your bones and wave in and out of your thoughts. I want it to remind you of yourself, of stories you’ve heard from your childhood and take you somewhere new that feels familiar.
I want to write a good story.
The reality is, if it isn’t a good story, I’ll live. It’ll all be okay because I am filled with stories and this is merely one of them. I find it fascinating to learn how precious it is to me when I share so much of myself and my stories weekly. I want people to read it but I don’t want to let it go and let it be free and wild and boundless. Then it stops being my own and becomes someone else’s and they may not be as precious with it. It could be torn down and injured. It could be cast aside or thrown out.
But that’s what a story, isn’t it? Something that runs away from its source and takes on new life out in the world. A story that burrows into your heart and stays there or perhaps that you glance at and forget about because it didn’t call to you. Every person is made up of stories and they collect others as they grow from books or films or writers like me. I’ve given away many stories and I think there is something about this one that makes me nervous to set it free. I’ve put it on a pedestal it doesn’t need to be on.
It’s merely a story. A tale I wove from my imagination that isn’t nearly finished. When it is, I do have to let it go and into the hands of those asking who I am thankful for every day. It will go into other hands as well; people who haven’t been asking me but instead asking the world to bring them a story to dive into. Maybe it is mine, maybe it isn’t. Someone somewhere wants this one, I hope. I know I want it.
I’m learning about writing as I go. I am sure someone will read this and think it is all so obvious. It is all part of being a writer, how can I not know that? I do know it, of course I do. I am also sure someone will read this and perhaps they too felt alone in the constant worry of sharing their biggest project and feel my hand in theirs as we navigate these uncharted waters.
I can’t wait to share my work and I am equally terrified to. Some of the best writing advice I’ve heard is to write for yourself and write stories you want to read. That’s what I’m doing and I know the fear that no one else will want to read them will never truly disappear. Even if this novel magically is published and tons of people read it, that fear will always be there. The hesitation to share my whole heart instead of pieces of it in a short story or a character in a play.
In the end, I wanted to write this novel because I like this story. I have big dreams for it, of course. It would be sad if I didn’t. Those dreams are not why I write it, why I think about it every night as I go to sleep, why I have dozens of scraps of paper with weird little notes of ideas that have come to me out of the blue.
I wrote it to tell the story. I’ll keep writing until it is told. Then I will grit my teeth and let it go because that’s what you do with stories. You set them free.
