Why Writers Need Courage

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There’s a technique called “verbal first aid,” where you lean toward an accident victim going into shock and—into his left ear—calmly say, “Everything is going to be all right.” Bypassing logic, this is immediately soothing to the victim’s nervous system. That left ear is powerful.

From the “command center” where I sit at my computer with my telephone headset on, my left ear hears the voices of the writers I coach, edit, and counsel speaking to me in alternating tones of inspiration, frustration, joy, and anxiety—their concerns penetrating deeply into the emotional matrix that is my right brain. My left ear, my right brain, listens for the energy behind the words they utter. I hear them down to the fiber of my being, absorbing, doing my best to process what comes in, letting it move through me if I can, and offering feedback and, sometimes, comfort.

Granted, I also have been known kick butt, but rarely when a writer sounds vulnerable.

Courage. Audacity. That’s what it takes to write a book. My role is to create a safe space for a writer to take risks and fail before taking the ultimate risk of exposure to a wider audience. My role is to challenge them to, and help them do their best when they can’t get out of the way. My role is to reinforce their book’s vision. For, having been around the block once or twice, I can see what lies beyond the corner just ahead—and I know it is not a monster, though it merits attention.

Writing a book changes your life. It simply does. It doesn’t matter what happens to that book in the end—you may think it does, but only to a degree—the real change, the change that matters, is in your identity. That’s an internal shift from which everything else in your life is sourced.

I know, I know, I’m philosophizing again. I can’t help myself. I simply talk to too many writers who are feeling anxious not to bring up these subjects repeatedly. I want to help you!

Here’s the bottom-line: Behind the eyes of every writer lies a life. You come from somewhere. You have feelings about it. Some things that happened to you were never resolved—many never will be (if you’re like the rest of the human race). You’ve got kids and spouses and business partners and in some areas things are falling apart, in others things are expanding. There’s always a holiday coming up or a deadline that has to be met—or a vacation. Or you’re not in the mood or right frame of mind or you just fell in love or your relationship went south. Basically, you’re doing the best you can with limited resources. Life is a messy proposition.

Now, into this mixture of pain and coping and daily routines that you are hoping, planning, to gain control over, you drop the A-bomb of writing a book. Kah-pow! Holy crap, Batman! All your feelings and inadequacies roll right on over from the mosh pit into this new project.

This happens to absolutely everyone. I assure you. Feelings are inevitable if you have a body. The question is: What do you do with them? How do you respond to life? Courage.

I love the word “courage.” Latin root. Cor. Heart. That life behind your eyes is exactly what you need to do this job of being a writer. The perceived weakness is your real strength—once you let it in. How much life has to teach you if you will only let it!

Like everything else, taking on the task of writing a book is a mirror. If you watch your thoughts in response to the process—a series of tasks—you’ll meet yourself face to face.

I still remember feeling upset and left out of groups as a teen. Like sludge, this dredges up from the trenches of my wounded being whenever I dare to risk being seen. Rejection! What wouldn’t I do to avoid that feeling? Seriously. Having built a life purposefully to avoid experiencing being hurt by people’s opinions of me, I’m expert at avoidance. At the same time, I hunger to replay the scenario and, this time, get it right. Those things are diametrically opposed. Get it?

This is not new information. It’s my story. I’m on to it. Being able to recognize those feelings when they arise is a signal to me that I’m on track when my goal is to get out there and do something bigger. When the sludge comes it’s a message that I need support, to go easy on me, to do a little verbal first aid: “Everything is going to be all right.”

What’s your story? I only ask because I can pretty much guarantee it shows up in your writing. The phrase “read between the lines” is spot on accurate. And on lines. And behind lines. And in word choices. And in what is put in and what is left out. And in your work habits. Hobbits?

Here’s a few ways you can support yourself when you’re feeling vulnerable about writing.

• Stop what you’re doing, slow down for a minute, and take a deep breath or two.
• Reconnect with the value of what you have to offer, how it will touch someone.
• Focus in on the step you’re on (often our wheels spin when we project into the future).
• Let yourself feel your feelings. If you’re enraged, stuff a towel in your mouth and scream (that way you won’t scare your neighbors). If you’re sad, get out a box of tissues and have a good cry.
• Be obstinate. Talk back to the unconstructive “voices” in your head. Say: “This matters to me! I’m doing it! It’s a priority in my life and nothing and no one is going to stand in my way.”
• Get some exercise. Sweat out the stress chemicals in your body. Loosen up.
• Visualize it as done in the present. What’s that like for you? Be detailed. (Sometimes when I visualize all I perceive is the hem of a sleeve touching my wrist, yet I know what this means.)
• Handle your objections. Maybe the points are valid? Solve them and then go in peace.
• Often a good night’s sleep does the trick. If you’ve push too hard for too long, rest.

My point is actually this: A little change will do you good. That’s why you asked for it.