Beautiful Light

I was teaching a workshop recently in which I asked the students to describe a great day of writing. I asked a few of the students to read what they’d written, and one described feeling as if she was floating on a river, and another likened it to being wrapped in a warm blanket, and another feeling as though she was glowing from the inside out. Two of the writers used particularly poetic language, due, it turns out, to having a background in poetry writing.

Toward the end of the class, I asked the students what the hard part of writing was for them. There was one older woman I had not heard from much yet, though who had been paying close attention throughout the class. When I asked her what the hard part was, she said it was that her writing would appear childish. Since she had not shared her description of a good day of writing, I asked her to read it aloud and critique it for us, tell us exactly what was so “childish” about her writing.

She did, and of course it was not childish at all. It was a clear, direct, unornamented, honest, noun-and-verb meal of a piece of writing. When I asked her what was wrong with it, she said it wasn’t beautiful enough, wasn’t poetic enough, that it was too simple. I told there was absolutely nothing wrong with her work, that it had the same honest, directness that she herself emanated, that her voice was just one of many ways writing could be beautiful. The rest of the class chimed in as well, reassuring her that they loved what she had written.

I’m sure it helped a little, but the closing of the wound she was carrying depends entirely on her. In all likelihood, at some point many years ago she came up with a concept of “good writing.” It had to be fancy, it had to sound like the sort of thing only a very smart and creative person could think of, it had to feel special, it had to seem different than her. Perhaps she has tried to write this way and failed. She can’t help but write the way she writes, which is to say, the way she thinks, which is the way she is.  

I fully understand the temptation to believe that to succeed we must somehow be better than we are. I lived quietly with that idea for many years. However, my job as a writer, as a teacher, as a person, is not to be better than I am, but to be more of who I am. To strip away layer upon layer of all that I thought I should be, thought I was supposed to be, revealing more and more of the essence that has guided me faithfully whether I followed it or not. That is beauty, life’s light unobscured by comparison or expectation, a light that can only be dimmed by the fear that it is not bright enough.

If you like the ideas and perspectives expressed here, feel free to contact me about individual coaching and group workshops.

Everyone Has What It Takes: A Writer’s Guide to the End of Self-Doubt
You can find William at: williamkenower.com