On insecurity
Writerly and otherwise
I have a lovely, talented writer friend. Several years ago, she decided she wanted to be published in The New York Times. I’d say most writers would very much like to be published in The New York Times, but her desire was consuming. She had worked exceedingly hard for years, and this byline felt like her north star, her gold medal. It meant everything to her. She was convinced that when that story came out, she would have officially made it as a writer. She would have arrived!
It was hard work. She did a lot of research. She pitched many, many times. There was a lot of radio silence. She kept pitching. She finally got a yes. There were rewrites upon rewrites. There was deep-seated self-doubt.
And then she did it. YAY! The story was out! Her name in The New York Times.
She rushed to the newsstand to get her hands on a print copy. She called her mom and her grandma. She texted me the good news and I responded with many, many handclapping and heart and champagne popping emojis.
A few weeks later, I asked her if this big achievement had felt the way she hoped. Had her insecurity vanished? Did she now know on a heart/gut level that she had officially made it as a writer?
Nope!
She had felt an initial wave of pride and satisfaction. But by now that seemed like ancient history. She was back to the hustle and the worry. Not much had changed after all, including that pesky self-doubt.
Most of the writers I know have both a love for the work we do—for telling stories and the power of words to transport and lift up and transform—AND a sometimes crippling, overwhelming insecurity.
My own insecurity sounds something like this:
This is so cringey.
Who could possibly be interested in this crap?
Who do you think you are?
This is boring. Stupid. Uninspired. Embarrassing.
You are a fraud. You are a joke.
These are quotes from a certain part of my brain, the inner critic. My inner critic is very chatty, loud and persistent. She’s also a jerk.
My friend’s New York Times was my book. I hoped it would bestow some sort of writerly status and legitimacy. I didn’t think it would banish the inner critic from my brain, but I thought it would quiet her down.
In a way, it did. People I admire said things so touching about what my book meant to them that I broke down ugly crying. I got to go on book tour and to radio studios and talk about my book. I got to sit on panels at fancy conferences. People read my book; my words mattered. For this, I feel incredibly grateful.
But I still send out pitches that get zero response. I still compare and despair. (How come her book was reviewed there and mine wasn’t? How come I didn’t make that list? What about that prize?) I am still embarrassed by something I wrote last year or last month or earlier this morning. I am still plagued with the suspicion that deep down, my work sucks.
As I am working on finishing edits for my second book, all those feelings of fear and doubt have been chiming in. In some ways, they’re louder than ever. In these pandemic times, I don’t have many of the happy distractions of my old life, sharing time with friends and going on small adventures that would take my focus away from my own anxieties.
I have some tools that do help me, and I’ll share them in case they help you, too.
Don’t argue with insecurity. Insecurity is relentless and mean. It will always win.
Instead, I try not to give it too much airspace. I shift my thoughts to something else, like how much Simone enjoyed her first Thanksgiving. I shift my attention back to something more positive, perhaps to doing the writing/work itself.
I tell myself the insecurity can hang out, way up on a shelf out of reach, while I write. I can invite it back in for editing, where it can be channeled a bit. But it’s poison while I’m writing, it will stop me from writing anything at all. So, I have to exile it. Don’t worry, it’s always there waiting for me.
I call or text someone else and ask how they’re doing. I do something for somebody else. Anything to get out of my own head!
I go for a walk. Perhaps while doing #4. I love walking and chatting on the phone. Plus, insecurity hates fresh air.
I try to extend myself as much kindness as I can muster. It’s my instinct to be ruthlessly hard on myself, but I don’t really deserve that.
Also, it helps me to set the bar a lot lower. If I am trying to write the great American memoir, I am going to fall short. Maybe today instead I’ll aim to write 500 words. They can be awful words that get deleted later, I just have to write something. Maybe I’ll aim to make my bed. Instead of preparing a culinary masterpiece, I’ll just make something for dinner.
Speaking of dinner, many of you shared your enthusiasm about the creamy little onions that my mom makes and that I wrote about in last week’s newsletter. The laborious part is peeling all those onions; turns out it’s way less annoying when you’re making them for four adults, rather than 20-ish. I asked my mom about this yummy dish. It’s pretty simple:
Peel all those onions. Cipollinis are the best, but if you can’t find them pearl onions will do. (Par-boil them for about 3 minutes to make this doable.)
Caramelize them slowly in a generous amount of butter. They’ll get all melty and golden.
Season with salt, pepper, and some fresh nutmeg. Add some cream and reduce to make a luxurious sauce.
Deglaze the pan with a splash of sherry. Enjoy!
What I’ve been writing: I’m working on finishing up edits for my next book, which has a name! Plenty: A Memoir of Food & Family. It’s coming out in September 2021! I also wrote about charcuterie for Deli Business Magazine.
What I’ve been reading: I’m loving Tana French’s new novel The Searcher. It’s about a retired Chicago police officer who moves to a quiet a quiet Irish village to find peace and quiet. Spoiler: he doesn’t. French is such a brilliant storyteller and I’m obsessed with how she creates such vivid characters.
Here’s Simone and our Thanksgiving feast, including those little onions. Wishing you all a wonderful week.
I remember your mom's onions!!!