Trying Something Old
All my life, I’ve been encouraged to try new things, but this week, I realized that trying something old can be just as impactful and work on the same skills of confidence and courage.
I hadn’t taken a writing class since college, and not for lack of desire. I wanted to take more writing classes almost immediately after graduating with a creative writing degree, but after my experience senior year, I was too afraid to give it a try. Even though there were plenty of online options, I set my sights on a particular place in New York City and said that since I didn’t live there or close enough to commute, I couldn’t take a class.
What I really felt was fear. My senior year of college - one brief year after my breakdown - I came back to college prepared to conquer the world. I took extremely complicated courses and added more than the typical course load to secure a double-major. I also decided to write a thesis, and as happens with much of my writing, it became deeply personal.
This thesis - a novel - focused on three stories: Ellie, who I mentioned last week, who was a representation of the part of myself I hated the most and what would happen if that part spiraled out of control; Jeanine, whose ambition resembled mine and who found herself struggling in a world where her life was far out of her control; and finally, the goddess Athena, taking a small and simple role in the story that somehow thrilled and inspired me like nothing else. Quickly, I developed an obsession with all things Greek mythology, and with my friends encouraging me at every step, I flew through over a hundred pages of writing with ease.
The problems started when I had to share the story with others. Even now, many years later, it was hard for me to type that last paragraph, to acknowledge my ideas. I became incredibly ashamed of my story, even as I fought very hard for it, when I received fierce criticism from my thesis-writing class.
This isn’t to say that I can’t take criticism - in fact, I always enjoyed sharing my work with others to see what they thought, and loved incorporating feedback. But this criticism was different. I vividly recall convincing myself that I had to wait until after class to cry when people told me my ideas were horrible, idiotic, and not something anyone should ever write. I usually made it to the stairwell and then rushed down, determined to stop crying before I made it to dinner with my friends who were much kinder.
The professors weren’t much kinder, and it got to the point where I was told point-blank to change what I was writing thanks to all the feedback I was getting, and that there was nothing I could incorporate. That was because none of the feedback was constructive - just hearing that “this sucks” or “you can’t write” or “give up” doesn’t tell me how to improve a manuscript, it just makes me sad and angry. I told my thesis advisor that I was going to fight for my story and if my story was really so horrible, I would just quit the thesis program. He told me I could stay, and to make my work the best I could.
The controversy never quite went away, even after months went by without a kind word. I fought for my story like I said I would, never got constructive feedback, and went into my defense terrified and far too prepared. In the end, I got an A on my thesis from that same professor and continued working on the story for a few years afterwards.
I still love that story to this day, although I’m scared to do anything with it. I’m scared to show it to people, and that spread to the rest of my writing. Even this blog is something only a scant few people in my life know about, and I can’t even sit in the same room as someone reading anything I’ve written. Even if it’s true, honest, and revised as best as I can, I still hear the people in my thesis group calling me stupid and my ideas worth less than the paper they were printed on.
Years later, I decided to try to be brave. I signed up for a writing class with the place in New York City, which went online thanks to the pandemic. I didn’t have any excuses other than my fear, and before I could overthink things or obsess over what could go wrong, I signed myself up.
This week was the first time in years that I have given a sample of writing to be evaluated by a group. I surprised myself by volunteering last week, and submitted the first four pages of the story I wrote last week’s blog about - the story of Britt. I didn’t know how people were going to respond to my first attempt of writing horror or the way my character dissociated and experienced flashbacks and had so much trouble living in the moment because of an experience she couldn’t vocalize. I sent two scenes - one about a hot dog and one about a pet dog - and waited.
When it came time for class to start, I was pacing anxiously around my room. I hadn’t shared anything in years, and even though I’d technically done it before, it somehow felt scarier because I knew how badly it could go. The Zoom room could quickly turn into 14 people (a similar number to my college class) telling me I’m dumb and have horrible ideas. And of course, when it came time for me to start receiving feedback, my anxiety peaked.
Against what I’d planned, I wound up starting to overexplain things, but thankfully I caught myself before apologizing. I knew I had nothing to apologize for, but I still felt the need to say sorry to anyone who had to read my work. I quickly added that my last experience in a writing class was very negative and I was nervous to hear what people had to say, although I wanted honest feedback, especially since this was my first time writing horror.
The first thing the professor said was, “Wow, hearing that it’s your first time in this genre - I’m doubly impressed about the vibe you got across.”
A smile crept across my face and it only got wider when the main thing people enjoyed about my story was the in-depth and realistic portrayal of PTSD. I felt incredulous that they actually liked what I’d written and wanted to see more of what was going on in Britt’s head!
Just like in this blog, I’d conveyed a story I knew well, and it wasn’t stupid or bad or wrong. It was how I saw the world, and just like my college thesis - which was based on my lived experience with OCD, dreams, and a literal obsession - there was nothing wrong with sharing my point of view.
As one class participant said, “I’ve never thought about what it would be like to be in a picture-perfect college and experience something like Britt did, live to tell the tale, and reconcile the two worlds.” As someone who’s done the same thing (although with fewer demonic beings), it was refreshing to hear that my story - both imagined and real - was valid.
I am excited to incorporate the feedback I received into the next draft of the story. Even with just four pages, I was able to learn what my group wanted to know more about, what was clear and what wasn’t, and how to keep the internal monologue going in a satisfying way. It didn’t have to be a matter of everyone liking everything for me to feel okay, and I learned that I can take criticism when it’s framed in a polite and respectful way.
This week, I tried something old that felt entirely new thanks to the class’s reactions. Everything else was the same - a mental health-based story in a new genre, supportive friends on the side but not in the class, and an idea I was truly excited about. But thanks to the kindness of people who heard and understood what I needed, it was a wonderful experience and one I hope to repeat again as I work more on Britt’s story.
Maybe I’ll even show it to my family and friends - another new-old step on my writing journey.
Ellie, a writer new to the Chicago area, was diagnosed with OCD at age 3. She hopes to educate others about her condition and end the stigma against mental illness.
