In the first couple of years that I was writing seriously, I put my work in front of other people infrequently, and only to very small groups of people. The insecurity that struck me in those moments was small, and easy to manage. The stakes were low.
But there came a point when the stakes seemed to skyrocket, all at once. It was partially the audience: I had submitted my writing samples for a Futurescapes workshop and was waiting for the sessions in which I would get feedback from three different professionals that I respected and admired.
The audience wasn’t the only difference, though. The more important difference was that I’d started to believe that my writing was improving. I knew my work wasn’t abysmal anymore, even if I wasn’t quite sure where I was on the grand arc from “novice” to “publishable.” I had started to imagine querying agents after incorporating the feedback I’d be getting. The pressure was on, even if it was all internal, and my anxiety had kicked in to a much greater degree.
For several days, my self-confidence soared and plummeted without any triggers in either direction. Then, I realized something: THIS is what I’d heard published authors talk about in panel discussions or interviews about what it’s like to be a writer. It’s the writer’s equivalent of that little buzz of nerves a performer gets just before they go on stage. Every time they go on stage.
That comparison made me really understand something else I’d heard from those published authors: this is not just a temporary state. It doesn’t go away the day some gatekeeping figure tells you you’re good enough. There’s no plateau where suddenly you have all the confidence you need, and not an ounce more, and everything is easy. Not that it’s constant anguish. There are huge swaths of time when an artist can bury their head in their work and NOT think too much about what other people think, just as performers can find both comfort and joy in the rehearsal process. Sometimes, of course, you get positive feedback that puts you on cloud nine for a while. But no compliment is enough to tell your insecurities to just take a hike and never come back.
The mildly horrifying truth I realized that day is that I have stepped on to an emotional roller-coaster that’s not going to stop until I do. I don’t plan on stopping for a while, which means I’m buckling in for a few decades of vacillation between exuberance and slight nausea.
Sometimes, emotions like sadness and anxiety are indicators. They’re like the kind of pain you get when you sprain your ankle: warning you that something’s wrong, and that you should pay attention to it.
I’ve had plenty of those indicators in my life. Feelings I could pursue with my journal, or my therapist, until I got to the source. Things I could work through, and work on, and heal.
But unlike that sprained ankle, the source of THESE feelings isn’t going away. I’m not going to solve this, so I need some coping strategies. I figure all of us probably do, so I’ll share mine below. (And I’d love to hear yours in the comments!)
Strategy One: Start A Conversation with my Insecurity
I have a daily journaling habit, anyway, so the first step is easy. Whenever I feel another dramatic curve of that roller-coaster track, I sit down to write. Sometimes I let my insecurity have a page or two to express itself: I let it tell me what it’s afraid of (which, incidentally, is pretty much always that I’m going to hurt a lot when my work is rejected), and then I remind it that rejection is part of the game, and that I’m strong enough to handle it, and that I’ve already decided it’s worth the risk.
This process doesn’t make the bad feelings go away. But it’s often enough to turn down the volume a little while, so I can focus on other things.
Strategy Two: Be Bigger than My Insecurity
When journaling isn’t enough, I get a little more strategic. I remind myself that these emotions – these particular versions of anxiety and insecurity that come up when an artist shares their work – do not define the person who has them.
Then, I double-down on that, and remind myself that my identity is a lot bigger than simply “Writer”. This is a thing I harp on a lot, and this is one of the biggest reasons. My writing-related insecurities are only a minority shareholder in my whole emotional life. They’re real, but they don’t get to stay in control.
At this point, it’s often helpful to have something else to do. Something else to focus on, that is neither the art, nor the paying-the-rent job. What some people might call “a hobby.”
I’ve never been good at hobbies, honestly. I think because I’ve always loved things that want to absorb your whole life (like writing, and theatre). But lately, I’ve been giving conscious thought to actually building hobbies, on purpose. I have a couple of craft projects in progress. And things I want to learn how to make in the kitchen. (When I say “things,” I’m referring to desserts. Always desserts.) And I’ve been getting involved in my local community in a couple of different ways.
All of those things serve additional purposes, as well, but when it comes to the insecurity roller-coaster, they’re game changers for me. They put everything back in perspective and give me a break from the worry.
Strategy Three: Shout Down my Insecurity with Silliness
Honestly, this is less a strategy than a lifestyle choice. I’m silly. I have an identifiable “hungry and getting ready to eat” dance, that many of my friends recognize. Anytime one of the major candy bar companies comes out with a new alternative flavor, I buy it and try it even if I think it’s going to be terrible. I have MULTIPLE boxes of crayons on a shelf in my office. I love watching old Sesame Street clips on YouTube.
I tend to take myself (and my emotions) too seriously, so these little bursts of silliness keep me in balance.
So, your turn. How do you cope with your artist-anxieties?