The Wastepaper Basket

I’m trying to listen to more podcasts lately. Last night, while listening to the Dear Hank and John podcast, the subject of regretting past writing comes up– it’s a conversation that gets my insides in a twist. As an unpublished wannabe author, my imposter syndrome kicks into overdrive when I hear people I respect talk about the works that they would redo. “I wish I could go back and write-” they’ll say, or “I look back at that work and wonder how it sold-” or maybe, “I’ve grown so much since I’ve written that book-” I can feel the noose being tightened. What I’d give to make some of these people’s lesser work!

But this conversation really lent me a hand, and I feel like I’m finally walking away with real tools as my career is starting up. 

I looked it up for exact reference- it’s an offhand statement, 15 minutes and 19 seconds exactly, found in episode 438 of ‘Dear Hank And John.” The conversation was orbiting around the idea of what it was like to deal with sudden fame, and the unique situations that Green realized he hadn’t been prepared for. When talking about the book that launched his career, “the Fault In Our Stars,” Green mentioned this:

“I mean, I would write it differently now. I’d write all my books differently now. That’s the nature of growing as a person. Hopefully you continue to change and that’s why you write new books.”

I appreciate the obviousness of this statement- it’s the sort of practicality of gained experience that almost goes over my head, it’s that simple. Although the conversation quickly moves on, the concept was extremely grounding. For the past few years I have been terrifying myself with the idea that my debut work will have to be the most professional, the most passionate, the most genuine, and the most polished example of my work. My more sober side could recognize that it wouldn’t be perfect, that I’ll have some duds in the road ahead, and there’s a lot of growing to do. 

But I’m self-aware enough to know that the drama-junkie emotional side of my brain is usually the one in the front seat. My emotional side doesn’t want to acknowledge any piece of failure- if I’m going to be a successful writer, I have to put out good work. If I don’t scour my manuscripts for flaws, it won’t be acceptable. In this case Mary Oliver’s paramount poem “Wild Geese,” is wrong- I DO have to be good. Unlike other writers it’s actually required that I, the exception, actually MUST walk for one hundred miles in the desert, repenting. 

Though it’s one casual sentence among many, what I took away from this conversation was that I am not obligated to aim for my best work. It’s easy to admit that all my works don’t have to be perfection– but do I believe that I can be a writer without striving for it? 

Working through it, I see the opportunity for a new perspective. What if, instead of trying to measure my work against a future, nonexistent career, I attempt to create a reflection of my current self? I should embrace the idea that writing a novel isn’t the task of doing my highest quality of work, but instead a challenge of journaling the writing process of my current self. There is no race against the years to refine and refine my product, but instead a genuine expression of self. I am not competing against my lesser self, but crafting a baby book of my worldview in this moment of time. It’s a diary of THIS current subconscious.

With the risk of waxing poetic, I’ll mention one last story- last year, during a socially rich but artistically difficult time in my life, I wrote down all the things that I wanted to strive for in my work. In the end, my goals boiled down to two characteristics; I wanted to be Genuine and Introspective. Whether I was blogging, collaging, Youtubing or writing, I wanted to fit into at least one of these categories. To help visualize, I pasted the words on yellow sticky notes above my doorway, so every day that I exited my room, I’d be passing under my own covenant. 

I’m too much of an anxious soul to cure imposter syndrome in a 12 hour period- but I hope at least that I can get the ball rolling down the hill, and give up on trying to push it to the top of the mountain.

All of what I’m trying to say can probably be better phrased by our esteemed mother, lady RuPaul:

We’re gonna be alright, as long as we’re present.

Thanks for reading.