What Could You Write If You Weren’t Afraid?

How concrete actions can sustain faith in the writing process

In my newsletter last week, I told a fellow writer: If there’s even one thing you can change, one thing you can do that will bolster or benefit your writing life, do it.

This is something I will sometimes mention in writing workshops, usually toward the end of class, when we’re discussing what we’ll take with us, what comes next, and how we might keep the momentum going. We may not get enough writing time, or we might not write enough in the time we do get. We might feel there’s little we can actually do to change our situation. But often, there is something we can do that will benefit our writing practice—a boundary to set, a practical barrier to remove, a space to set up or claim—if only for an hour or two a week.

I like to offer this guidance, a challenge of sorts, because I know that taking concrete actions on behalf of your writing can help you see your writing as worthwhile. You may have a hard time believing this, believing that you have a right to this time and this work when there are so many other things you could be doing. But sometimes, if you act as though you have faith, faith is given to you. You may find and establish habits, routines, and a mental framework that will help you commit to, and show up for, your writing for the rest of your life.

Early in my career, I was surprised to find that any sort of writing life was possible for me; it felt like such a stroke of luck. I was convinced that I couldn’t stop working, couldn’t stop pushing, and certainly couldn’t afford to indulge in things like pride or satisfaction. I thought that I had to prove myself over and over. But I’ve noticed that I feel quieter, calmer in my writing these days. If I have a bad writing day, or don’t write much at all, I don’t beat myself up or worry that I’ll never have another good idea. I’m working on a new project and don’t know if it’s going anywhere, and for now that doesn’t bother me, either. For a while, I wondered if something might actually be wrong—was I overtired? Losing touch with my ambition? Whatever the cause, I couldn’t trust this relative peace.

Then I started making a mental list of things I want to try in my writing—stretch goals, things I would have once thought I couldn’t do, or that I would have felt foolish (or selfish) for even considering. The list keeps growing. I’m realizing that I want even more than I used to; I just want different things. I’m less driven by a need to prove myself to anyone, more curious than ever about what I might try next. And I’m far less worried that I’ll make the “wrong” career decision—because now I know that there are many possible ways to keep building and improving, and my own creative fulfillment may take many different forms.

I spent so long hoping for and working toward certain opportunities, certain projects, certain roles, that it feels a little strange now to think about them and realize that they may not be right for me, at least not right now. But of course, the things you want most do change over time. Were I not so generally averse to change, perhaps I would have been less suspicious when I realized that my creative goals and priorities were shifting. My ambition and drive aren’t missing at all, but stretching into new shapes. It’s exciting to find that I am less fixed on one or two potential writing paths, more open to a range of possibilities.

And so I have been thinking about how to take my own advice—considering what changes I can make, great or small, that will help me do the work I really want to do next. What’s going to help me grow in the ways I hope to? What risks can I take? What can I write if I’m not afraid? There is less pressure in the act of sitting down with a laptop or notebook every day, less worry about precisely what will come of it. I find it is easier for me to be still and listen, to stay curious, to trust that as I keep showing up for myself and my work, a way will open.