When You Want to Quit

That voice that sounds suspiciously like the most disapproving person in your life will, at some time or another, tell you to give up on writing. You suck. You write like a five-year-old. Stephen King was younger than you when he first published.

And that voice is probably right about most of it. You probably do suck, compared to where you will be in five or ten years. You might write like a five-year-old, if the five-year-old is a wunderkind. Stephen King was, indeed, younger.

But you shouldn’t quit.

That voice is the voice of dissatisfaction with where you are in your writing journey. We all hear that voice. And we’re all faced with a choice: quit or get better.

Because, obviously, that voice won’t let you stay where you are right now.
Quit or get better. Shit or get off the pot.

I’m a proponent of getting better, not quitting. I like to crack open a book right about then, and say to my father’s voice, “We’ll see about that after I learn some stuff.”

Why? Because rarely in life do we get to choose our turning points, but this is one place where we do. We can quit writing, sure, but most of us don’t. That means we can ignore this voice and simply have a fling with writing until the voice comes back, or we can face the voice head-on, arms akimbo and chin outthrust.

Nose in book; red pen on essay.

Accepting critiques or applying lessons in writing manuals are some of the toughest things we do. Acknowledging that our prose isn’t perfect, that our poetry doesn’t evoke, necessarily hurts. It stings. It damages our tiny cat feelings. It sucks.

But if we don’t acknowledge room to improve, we’ll battle all our lives with that voice that says “you aren’t good enough.” Because you know what? We aren’t good enough. We are not good enough today for tomorrow. We do not know everything. Assuming we do is hubris.

“But I can’t afford it. I don’t have time. But it’s my unique writing voice. You just don’t understand my art.”

Listen here: ANYTHING you say back to the voice in your head is an excuse. It’s not the real reason you’re reticent to take that critique. It’s not the reason you’re unwilling to pick up a book. It’s a cover for being afraid. Afraid the voice is right.

So if you acknowledge that the voice is right, you can save yourself a lot of arguing.

But shouldn’t you write for the sheer joy of writing? Yes. You feel super-joyful when you’re wondering whether you should give up your dreams. Time. Of. Your. Life.

Look, writing is awesome. That’s how it got you hooked. And sometimes it sucks, like when you have to sublimate your ego. But it will get awesome again if you get over yourself. Try it.

Just write. And learn. And write some more.

And when you hear that disapproving voice in your head: welcome it. It means that there’s something you need to learn. Dollars to doughnuts, you know what that “thing” is: it’s whatever’s bothering you about your writing. Your characters suck: go study character building. Your world is flat: go study world building. People don’t understand what you mean: study sentence structure. Your prose drags: learn to activate your verbs and select your nouns.

It’s not easy, but it’s worth it. It means the end of angst and the beginning of an exciting journey toward awesomeness.

But only if you don’t quit.