My alma mater recently asked alumnae to volunteer to write letters to new students, most of whom I assume are entering their first year of college. When I got the notification about the opportunity in the alumnae Facebook group, I immediately knew I wanted to be a part of it. I signed up to write to 10 students, excited to make the newcomers’ day a bit brighter.
But when I sat down to write my first letter, as happens so often when I sit down to write, I became overwhelmed with wanting to say the perfect thing. I think often of Mark Twain’s famous observation that the difference between almost the right word and the right word is the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning.
It’s easy to convince yourself that what you’re writing has to be just right, or comprehensive, or unequivocal. And that line of thinking is overwhelming. I’ve met so many writers who have undermined their own ideas by becoming preoccupied by all the possible shortcomings of something that has not yet been written.
While there are many reasons writers struggle, I think it is most difficult to muster up the confidence to quash one’s own self-doubt. Self-doubt has knocked every writer on their back at one point or another—even the most experienced writer can be stopped in their tracks by a heavy cloud of perceived inadequacy. So what’s a writer to do? Based on my experience, I have a few pieces of advice.
First, you might consider that unequivocal arguments are neither possible nor interesting. I’ve encountered so many writers who have an interesting and strong argument for an essay, but are overwhelmed by counter-arguments and limitations. However, a writer need not fret once they identify the possible holes. Just because someone might disagree with you doesn’t mean you shouldn’t argue your opinion. Answer possible questions the reader might have as part of your argument. Explain why your opinion is still valid despite a limitation in data collection, available resources, or your dissenters’ logic. Even if you’re literally writing the textbook on the subject, you can’t possibly include everything; if you can’t include something that you or others think may be important, touch on it briefly, and explain why you’re excluding it. Whatever you do, don’t ignore those holes. If you approach them with the intention of using them to your advantage, they will only strengthen your position.
I also encourage you to keep in mind that you can always revise something you’ve written, but you can’t revise a blank page. Pretty much every essay I’ve ever written had some form of [FIX LANGUAGE?!?!] or [ADD SENTENCE!!] or [NEED A PITHY TRANSITION!!!!] in the middle of paragraphs. It’s okay if the language isn’t perfect the first time around. Sometimes you just have to drop a reminder to future you and just keep writing. If fear that what you’re writing isn’t perfect is stopping you from writing anything at all, just start. Revise later.
This last point is an idea that gets us back to the letters I volunteered to write to new students, and I think it’s the most important point I’ve made so far. You have to know that your voice is important. Whenever you’re approaching new subject matter, a new kind of writing, or a project of greater magnitude than any you’ve taken on before, unless you’re the leading expert in the subject at hand (and, perhaps, even then) you might worry whether whatever you’re saying is a) going to be any good and b) matter. It would feel amazing to be able to argue, “In the next five-to-six pages, I will present an interpretation of Romeo and Juliet that is going to revolutionize our understanding of British playwriting, reveal a way to predict earthquakes, and improve the top-secret Krabby Patty recipe.” But you don’t have to change the course of literature, geology, and undersea fry-cooking in one go to create something new and innovative.
Indeed, what you have to say is significant precisely because you are saying it.
I’m not suggesting you compose a thesis statement that argues, “My interpretation of Romeo and Juliet is important because I am important,” even though, on some level, you should believe this is true.
What I am suggesting is that you use this idea—“My idea is important because I am important”—to make the leap you need to make. You don’t have to be an expert if you approach your project from the position that your ideas deserve to be heard. You’ll still have to do the thinking, the reading, and the research required to make your case. But at the outset, knowing deep down that whatever you decide to say will matter shall be the fuel for your engines. Even if you feel like just a drop in an ocean, by writing whatever it is you choose to write, you will have done your part to make the ocean of thought that much broader, deeper—grander.
After much drafting, I wrote the following in my letters to my alma mater’s newest students:
I knew college would be unlike any other adventure I’d ever been on, but shit really got real in a way I never could have expected. My biggest advice: whatever comes your way at college (and beyond!), own it. Make it yours. Put it in your own terms and don’t let anyone else take it from you. Learn, grow, change, but at the end of the day, let your sense of self be your guide. Because you’re amazing and important, now and always.
Funny that the wisdom I tried to impart to them was the same advice that I so often need to give myself when I’m losing the battle against a blank page. Make it yours, and the rest will come.
I know this post might border on cliché, but I think I needed to write it as much for myself as for anyone else. Even seconds before hitting “publish,” I’m sitting here obsessing over whether it’s perfect, whether it says what I want it to say, whether I’ll look back on it in a day, a week, a month and groan at myself. But I’ve realized that what I’ve put into this blog post is exactly what I can say on this topic, given all the resources and experiences I have tucked away in my brain at this moment. Waiting to have all the advice and wisdom in the world before saying anything would take about as long as it takes the average person to achieve nirvana—lifetimes. This is not to say that badly planned and unconsidered ideas are a good thing, or that you shouldn’t be pensive about the words you put onto paper and into the world. But if I did nothing but sit and worry about what to write, I would never write anything ever again.
And if I believe my own advice and believe that my voice is important, I know that would be a waste.
Publish button, our time has come.
What's the Word? 