A letter to myself, a writer and doubter—a letter that's also to you
"How do I cultivate hope in the face of obstacles and doubt in a supportive but realistic way?"
Subject: Doubter, a question for myself that, I hope, applies to subscribers too
Dear Swimming is Writing,
I know how to “keep making,” the theme of my picture book (and thus, keep swimming, keep writing). But how do I keep the faith during and after the making, while I wait? How do I trust something will come of my writing, especially when signals don’t often point toward rainbows? And is that all silly nonsense anyway? I worry that not to believe is bleak—no thank you to being a “tortured artist.” Yet trusting feels impossible sometimes given all the facts, signs, many many tries. Essentially: how do I cultivate hope in the face of obstacles and doubt in a supportive but realistic way?
Yours,
Doubter (aka Swimming is Writing)
Dear Doubter (aka Swimming is Writing),
Close your eyes. Imagine what it feels like when you’re writing something you care about. Swimming in it. When you’ve finished. Why you wrote it even though the process was invisible to everyone else, something you toiled over alone, that motivated you, consumed you, nudged you to get up at 5am or stay up late or sacrifice tasks and pastimes to attend to.
Picture what it’s about, why you started writing it, what it means to you—picture what you want it to mean to others.
Now can you believe in it? Might you trust that?
Even without having any idea of an actual outcome and the reality that nothing is certain or guaranteed or for sure, does picturing the meaning still give you a glimmer of hope? What might it be like to cultivate it? To let go? To not know how you’ll get there, but that you will—after all, you are moving through water already. To know there was meaning in the making, there is meaning now, and that someday you’ll look back from wherever it takes you and understand its unexpected, inexplicable unfolding?
“Wave,” art by Susanna Chapman, in collaboration with Dr. Hillary McBride; part of their “Embodiment Quartet Prints” series. Used with permission.
Close your eyes the way that figure in the print’s eyes are closed. How might it feel to dream, to believe in possibility by being totally immersed in the process not the outcome? In opening to whatever unknown path this stuff you’re working on is going to follow? In saying, ‘yeah, I’ll be glad I made this and it will surely lead to…something.’ Because something always happens! We just don’t know what it’ll be, and it’s often not what we’ve planned. Even when it feels like nothing has happened—and I know this feeling well—upon reflecting, that’s simply not true, even if it’s only what you alone are privy to.
Does believing feel better than naysaying? Than clocking every single signal of “no way” and then going: “see”? Does it just feel better, period?
As a writer, you likely know this phrase: “I wonder what would happen if…”
I wonder what would happen if you cultivated trust. Even if it seems extremely cheesy! Might it alleviate some suffering? The kind that comes from longing, from self-criticism, from wanting control.
The trick, I think, is in the feeling part, which is what trust is. You are so good at thinking. Churning, turning thoughts over, ruminating and chewing to make it make sense. Feeling is a different beast. It means confronting the body. The sensations. The existential dread.
We are often wired to avoid feelings, right, by outside forces? By unsupportive influences all around us from the start, maybe even truly detrimental ones out there or close to home.
Close your eyes. Go inside. What does it feel like to let go of what makes sense, of comparison, of evidence? What does it feel like to know in your bones what you’re up to no matter what? That there is a river you are part of and your tributary will meet with others through your own ingenuity, your tenacity, your passion, the push and flow of your process, the long way you’ve traveled already.
Oh yes, there it is! The meeting place, rush of gushing water, the one you couldn’t know was coming at exactly that spot, in that way. Perhaps you feel its inklings, tricklings running down your skin. Droplets of what’s to be, who might be waiting to read what only you can bring—perhaps the thing you also needed way back when.
Close your eyes and feel how far you’ve come, what you’ve already done, created, made it through, connections that have coalesced. Every swim, every conversation, every cup of tea, every jotted note, each early morning or late night session or stolen Sunday twenty minutes. Feel the way your story is real, your characters, that world or those words sometimes all you care about, it’s all real. The River. The birds. The shore.
Close your eyes. Really feel it. Let it carry you. Buoy you. Let it wash over the fear and worry of won’t, of can’t, of why even try at this.
Now, open your eyes.
Is it so silly to believe? To weave a hopeful fabric with loosely held yarn? To honor your desire to tell these stories? To trust something good will come.
Feel proud of yourself. Take stock of your accomplishments, even if they’re invisible ones. (And tell someone about them to celebrate right now!) Hang onto the feeling of hope that your work is of value and will inevitably mean something to you, to someone else.
You are already swimming. Let it flow. Let go. Shore is always there, somewhere.
Yours,
Swimming is Writing