One of the ideas described in ‘The Element’ that I keep coming back to is the concept of finding what Ken Robinson calls ‘your tribe’. The notion is that the tribe is a group you belong to and through it you gain validation, inspiration and motivation in your chosen field of endeavour. A lot of it seems straight forward - working with a group of people with the same interest (professional or otherwise) is likely to help you to openly discuss ideas, receive support and encouragement from individuals who have or are having similar experiences and gives you a network for providing feedback and motivation.
In some areas of interest, it would be impossible to develop one’s own skills without belonging to a tribe of sort. Musicians, actors and other artists involved in film and theatre would generally be required to work with others for some, if not most, of the time. I have only ever been involved in short films and stage productions at the amateur level but I would say that a large part of the enjoyment of such things is about working with a group of people who are all passionately committed to the same creative project. From these experiences, I fully understand how the validation, inspiration and motivation found within the group are very powerful forces. You push yourself well beyond your usual limits of energy, step outside of comfort zones and strive to do better than your best, and yet, if the group is a good one, you feel safe and supported about the whole experience. The trust built within the group and the shared desire to make the whole product the best it can be means that any potential tensions and jealousies between the individuals tend to be transcended for the group goal. If someone performs amazingly, the others aren’t envious; they are inspired to raise their performance.
However, writers don’t so naturally stumble into their tribes. One of the joys of writing – that it doesn’t require anything more a writer (and I suppose some form of writing implement) is also one of its dangers.
There are a lot of famous authors who seem to have led the most miserable existence; there is almost a kind of glamorous myth associated with the ‘suffering for one’s art’ approach. Sure, writers don’t have to be reclusive alcoholics who bitterly lament the cruelty of the world to write anything worth reading but I do think that writing could definitely exasperate one’s pre-existing melancholy about life because it can be such a solitary and deeply frustrating, angst-ridden process.
For me, writing is a deeply contradictory experience and if it’s the same for others, then I’m not surprised so many writers come across as a bit neurotic. While it is a hugely fun, joyous experience most days, there are days when it can feel immensely difficult and you’re not sure why you push yourself to do it. Writing the first draft is, for the most part, intoxicatingly rewarding and enjoyable. The story springs to life before your eyes as your fingers type as fast as they can and it doesn’t feel so much that you breathe life into the characters, as they are breathing life back into you.
On good days, writing makes the colours around you brighter, and you are imbued with the certainty that life is bursting with joys and rich experiences for you to discover. It is one of the most invigorating and uplifting pleasures in the world. Some days I bounce away from the laptop, convinced of my own brilliance and smugly thrilled that I have just written a good bit in my latest story.
Unfortunately, there are then the days when you go back and reread your genius only to discover that it is not only not as good as you thought it was, it is in fact the worst pile of drivel that any human ever regurgitated on an unsuspecting keyboard and if anyone else were to read it, you would surely be strung up for the heinous offence of atrocious writing.
Nothing can induce such a severe feeling of self-loathing as rereading your own writing. The story in your head is so compelling and the characters so exquisitely formed, that to fail to communicate the wonder they create in you is a gut-wrenching failure of the most miserable kind. You not only feel that you are deluded in whatever hopes you have to become a published author, you’re a complete failure and what’s worse is that you have wasted hundreds of hours of your precious life pursuing an unreachable dream because, you feel convinced with a sickening certainty, you do not have the talent you thought you did.
So you continue on a yo-yo journey with writing. Some days you feel fantastic about it, others you don’t. Amazingly enough you keep on believing in your own ability most days (and writing any way on the days that you don’t), not because you’re given overwhelming reason to, but because if you don’t, you’ll give up writing altogether and never experience the high of the good days.
If you’re lucky you have a Matt (or similar substitute) who supports you and says nice things about your writing because even though there is no quantity of praise that will match your own high opinions of your writing on the good days or completely persuade you that it isn’t terrible on the bad days, it is immeasurably helpful to receive any feedback, praise or even just acknowledgement your writing has been read by at least one other person.
I suppose I’ve only recently realised that feedback about writing isn’t only useful on a constructive criticism level. Providing suggestions for improvement or drawing your attention to bits that need work are helpful but they are not the most important thing.
The most important thing about feedback to aspiring authors is that it gives us validation that is so hard to find anywhere else. While praise is always greedily received and constructive feedback is useful, the most powerful thing, and what I’m really looking for if I’m honest with myself, when I ask for ‘feedback’ isn’t so much feedback as validation.
When you write your first story in the early years of primary school the response you receive is unreserved positive acclaim. You feel an immense pride over your epic masterpiece – which is probably along the lines of ‘This is a pig. His name is Percy.’* You’re so thrilled that you have accomplished this great work of literature that you even accompany it with a scrawling crayon illustration of the protagonist. You show your story to your teacher who praises you for your hard work and masterful weaving of the narrative. You may even earn a gold star sticker for your efforts. So proud of your accomplishment, you take the story home to show Mum and Dad who, if anything, show an even stronger response of delight at your tale and after praising your cleverness the treasured story is given the highest of honours – it is stuck to the family refrigerator.
It’s all downhill from that point on. No matter how long or hard you struggle over future stories they are almost definitely not going to receive such a glowing response from your public. A few authors get published, some receive good reviews and a small minority win literary prizes and awards but for most writers, your fridge door is going to remain a barren and desolate wasteland, unless you choose to start sticking piles of rejection letters up on your kitchen appliances.
The sad truth about most writers is that we are not desperately trying to make huge amounts of money out of our writing, we just want to experience that feeling again of having our story put up on the fridge.
Which is where I get back to the original point about the benefits of a ‘tribe’. Where writers can provide themselves with inspiration (just reading the diverse range of brilliant literature out there from writers both living and dead, published and unpublished is inspiration enough), motivation (the pursuit of dreams and goals, and the joy of writing itself), there isn’t much opportunity to validate oneself as a writer.
It is very difficult to convince yourself on the bad days that you aren’t devoting hours meaninglessly, it is hard to be persuaded that you really are, should and deserve to be a writer if no one is reading what you write. The purpose of writing, however enjoyable the act itself is to the writer, is to be read by others (unless it’s a diary I suppose). When someone gives up their time to read something you’ve written, however short, it is hugely gratifying. It validates the hours you spent writing.
The act of writing itself may be enough to make you a writer, but it’s the knowledge that someone else has bothered to read your writing that makes you feel like one.
I guess what I’m saying is that when a writer** asks someone to read something they’ve written, they don’t necessarily require glowing praise (although they’ll love it if they get it) and/or feedback on how to ‘fix it’ (actually, if they’re anything like me and other writers I live with, they probably don’t want to be told that – feedback is after all a necessary evil that writers seek only out of the desire to improve their writing), what they really want and need is the validation that their writing was read and is indeed worth reading.
*A few years ago I found one of my early stories from primary school, it was called ‘The Big Sisters’ and was two sentences long:
These are the big sisters. They are being mean to the little girl.
This poignant tale was complete with crayon drawing and I think it denotes a truthful insight into the harsh realities of life for a younger sibling. Clearly, I was destined from an early age to make a unique mark on the literary world. :-)
** OK, me. But I find it easier to assume that other writers feel the same way even if it’s not the case. It would be terrible to think that I am alone in all my insecurities.
