I've said it on these pages: I'm a good writer. That's not entirely a self-evaluation; other folks have said it, and I think they're probably right.
Am I successful writer? Nope. None of the people who have said that to me have then followed it up with, "...and I'd like to publish your novel/short story/chapbook/whatever." None of them were in a position to do so. There's no denying that the opinions of peers, friends, and family are of a different order than those of people who can publish you. It's the difference between the opinions of laymen and experts.
We live in a culture where the honest proclamation of one's own abilities is often perceived as arrogant. You may, in fact, be thinking that very thing of me, right now. However, that's not where I draw that particular line. For me, arrogance is somewhere around the point where you are so enamored with your own genius that you think no one else could possibly have anything to teach you.
So, yeah. While writing, I do a lot of things instinctively that I see many other people struggling with. But capability does not equal success. Ability and capacity are passive. Success is active. And I've been lazy. Because it's easy for me to knock off a well-constructed sentence, I've shied away from the parts of the craft that are difficult. That's why I've got a file cabinet full of half-finished crap. I have a lot more respect for someone of moderate talent who's in print than I do for someone with technical chops who hasn't grasped that it's not all about their supposedly self-evident brilliance.
It's easy, when you know you're good at something, to fall into the trap of arrogance. I've done it more frequently than I care to admit, and I'm not happy about it. But at the same time, it doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me to deny what I can do and mope around saying that I suck, because I don't. The worst part about the trap is that it's usually hidden, and I don't realize I've fallen into it until after I've said or done something thoughtless which gave the impression that I was convinced of my own vast superiority. I'm embarrassed by these failures. Fortunately, I usually learn something important from them.
Writers are a funny lot. We have to have enough confidence to believe that we might have a chance to succeed against truly daunting odds, or we wouldn't bother. Yet I don't know a single one (myself included) who isn't plagued by self-doubt and insecurity, or who doesn't experience bouts of loathing for his or her own work. My happiest moments are when I return to something that I've written, and can honestly say, "That's OK. Not bad." At the same time, I have never been so convinced of the quality of a piece that I have been angered or crushed by a rejection. I sometimes read about the accusatory letters that rejected writers have fired back to editors, dismissing their intelligence or artistic perception. I can't imagine doing such a thing. If I get a rejection with a comment on it, I'm a happy man. If I get a form rejection, I'm indifferent at best. Tack it to the cork board, and move on.
I've said it before: doubt keeps you sharp. One of the more interesting bits of psychodrama that I've experienced since starting this site is the onset of anxiety. Real, medicine-ball-in-the-chest, sweaty-palmed panic. Why?
Because in my whole life, I've never actually set out to do what I am now, finally, trying to do. I've never really had to face the fear of failure, or confronted the possibility that my self-assessment is just wrong, that my entire image of myself as a writer is an ill-constructed, neurotic phantom. This is a new level, for me. I am going to subject myself, not to the opinions of a friendly writer's group, but of people who do this sort of thing for a living. The gatekeepers. The ones to whom I have to actually prove my worth.
I'm scared out of my damn mind.
So, am I good writer? Yes.
Am I good enough? I don't know.
That, it seems to me, is the crucial difference between honest self-assessment and egotism.
Am I successful writer? Nope. None of the people who have said that to me have then followed it up with, "...and I'd like to publish your novel/short story/chapbook/whatever." None of them were in a position to do so. There's no denying that the opinions of peers, friends, and family are of a different order than those of people who can publish you. It's the difference between the opinions of laymen and experts.
We live in a culture where the honest proclamation of one's own abilities is often perceived as arrogant. You may, in fact, be thinking that very thing of me, right now. However, that's not where I draw that particular line. For me, arrogance is somewhere around the point where you are so enamored with your own genius that you think no one else could possibly have anything to teach you.
So, yeah. While writing, I do a lot of things instinctively that I see many other people struggling with. But capability does not equal success. Ability and capacity are passive. Success is active. And I've been lazy. Because it's easy for me to knock off a well-constructed sentence, I've shied away from the parts of the craft that are difficult. That's why I've got a file cabinet full of half-finished crap. I have a lot more respect for someone of moderate talent who's in print than I do for someone with technical chops who hasn't grasped that it's not all about their supposedly self-evident brilliance.
It's easy, when you know you're good at something, to fall into the trap of arrogance. I've done it more frequently than I care to admit, and I'm not happy about it. But at the same time, it doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me to deny what I can do and mope around saying that I suck, because I don't. The worst part about the trap is that it's usually hidden, and I don't realize I've fallen into it until after I've said or done something thoughtless which gave the impression that I was convinced of my own vast superiority. I'm embarrassed by these failures. Fortunately, I usually learn something important from them.
Writers are a funny lot. We have to have enough confidence to believe that we might have a chance to succeed against truly daunting odds, or we wouldn't bother. Yet I don't know a single one (myself included) who isn't plagued by self-doubt and insecurity, or who doesn't experience bouts of loathing for his or her own work. My happiest moments are when I return to something that I've written, and can honestly say, "That's OK. Not bad." At the same time, I have never been so convinced of the quality of a piece that I have been angered or crushed by a rejection. I sometimes read about the accusatory letters that rejected writers have fired back to editors, dismissing their intelligence or artistic perception. I can't imagine doing such a thing. If I get a rejection with a comment on it, I'm a happy man. If I get a form rejection, I'm indifferent at best. Tack it to the cork board, and move on.
I've said it before: doubt keeps you sharp. One of the more interesting bits of psychodrama that I've experienced since starting this site is the onset of anxiety. Real, medicine-ball-in-the-chest, sweaty-palmed panic. Why?
Because in my whole life, I've never actually set out to do what I am now, finally, trying to do. I've never really had to face the fear of failure, or confronted the possibility that my self-assessment is just wrong, that my entire image of myself as a writer is an ill-constructed, neurotic phantom. This is a new level, for me. I am going to subject myself, not to the opinions of a friendly writer's group, but of people who do this sort of thing for a living. The gatekeepers. The ones to whom I have to actually prove my worth.
I'm scared out of my damn mind.
So, am I good writer? Yes.
Am I good enough? I don't know.
That, it seems to me, is the crucial difference between honest self-assessment and egotism.
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