Long ago, someone gave me a birthday card that said “Fearless.” For many years, I tacked it on my bulletin board above my desk. Even now, it’s one of the few cards I’ve ever saved. I kept it because while a part of me resonated with the idea that I might be fearless, the rest of me just yearned to be—because I knew I wasn’t. I knew I had to learn to overcome fear as a writer or a person.

I look back on my life and realize that my fears, although often suppressed, were always present. Someone once asked me in an interview what I thought made me productive and focused, and I knew the answer was that I was running, always running, from the fears that I wouldn’t measure up.

So in some ways, it’s a humorous irony that I became a writer. Being a writer means putting yourself constantly into the storming heart of the most frightening parts of existence.

Writers can’t hide. If we try to avoid authenticity and vulnerability, our writing inevitably fails—and that is a devastation in itself. To choose this life is to choose to stand naked—before ourselves and, sooner or later, before the whole world.

Eventually, we must put everything out there be judged—from our punctuation skills to our very sanity. The ego is constantly battered, because of course we never measure up. The best thing we’ve ever written isn’t perfect. It’s full of holes for someone to point out. Even more poignant, if we’re really honest, is the truth that we don’t even need someone to point out the holes. We know them all. We know some scenes are boring. We know our characters are occasionally representatives of ourselves at our most whiny and unlikable. We know our logic and even our philosophy is sometimes without defense.

If we publish, we know we may lose more than money. We may lose face. Even if we’re lucky, we know we’ll get negative reviews—sometimes evisceratingly bad reviews. We know people are likely to ignore us as the utterly ignorable little people we are. And if they do notice, we know some of them will take it upon themselves to call into question our very humanity.

The stories and the characters that are so precious to us—and so symbolic of the precious inside parts of our own experiences—will be logically and sometimes brutally torn apart by others. And more often than not, when we read their words, the part of us that bleeds the worst is the part that knows there’s truth in what is being said.

Sometimes we want to give up. Sometimes we do. Sometimes publishing one more book, even one more post—putting one more piece of ourselves out there to be judged—seems too hard. Sometimes just the writing itself is too hard—the discipline of putting one word after another, the rawness of facing our own inadequacies on every page.

But we keep writing.

The fact that we often cannot help but keep writing does not lessen the truth that in continuing to write, we are engaging in a tremendous act of courage. Do not underestimate this. Ever.

Writing as Both Fearsome Compulsion and Courageous Choice

Cynthia Ozick gives us this beautiful statement:

If we had to say what writing is, we would have to define it essentially as an act of courage.

She’s also quoted as saying:

[Writing is] a kind of hallucinatory madness. You will do it no matter what. You can’t not do it.

As writers everywhere can attest, there’s much truth in that. Why else would we throw ourselves into the breach time and time again?

But I daresay the words we continue to brandish in the face of our fears do not always come so compulsively. It’s true that sometimes we are brave without thinking about it. We write, we publish, we wait for a response—without overthinking it. But sometimes it’s not so easy. Sometimes creation is John Hammond’s “act of sheer will.” Sometimes it is a deliberate howl into the darkness of our own fears.

Perhaps that’s the point. Putting the vulnerable and untested parts ourselves into the exposed irrevocability of print may be one of the most frightening things a human being can do, but it is also one of most fundamental and powerful ways in we which we fight to overcome our fright.

In truth, I’m thinking about all this today because I’ve been pondering my own reaction to a negative review. It’s a review of a story I wrote long, long ago, when I was barely an adult, when I was another person entirely, back when I was still learning so many basics of the craft. I wouldn’t write the book again, not in the same way. The person I am now would write it so that many of the things the reviewer disliked would have been corrected. And probably that is why the review made an impact on me at all; it is always the bad reviews I agree with that hurt the most.

As is always the case when a negative review hits home, there is a part of me that is scared to try again. It’s not a wholly reasonable part of me. It’s that sensitive, ego-driven part that feels as if this judgment of old, old words is somehow a judgment of my worth as a person. It’s also the part of me that loves that old story, in all its comparative shabbiness and naïvety, and that now feels as if that precious part of my life should have been kept shielded and private where it could not be scorned by others to whom I wasn’t skilled enough to communicate clearly.

I hear the words of that review—and others before it—and I am afraid. I know I haven’t yet understood how to remedy all the flaws I know about (never mind those I don’t). I know that when I come to my desk tonight, what I write won’t be perfect. I know that despite all efforts, I’m going to do it again—going to put myself right back in the crossfire. Ultimately it isn’t the criticism of others I fear, but the echo of agreement from within myself.

And yet, when it does come time tonight for me to write, I will. There will be a part of me that’s afraid—afraid of making the same mistakes, afraid both that I might shame myself with an exposure of my inner truths and also that I will betray those truths because my skill isn’t—and never will be—capable of conveying to others my own depth of experience. But I will write.

I will write, not just because of Ozick’s “hallucinatory madness,” but because I choose to write. I choose to keep going. I cannot choose to be fearless. But I can choose to be brave. And so can you.

5 Ways to Overcome Fear as a Writer

Sooner or later, fear (and it’s evil twin doubt) are feelings all writers experience. When you discover yourself feeling fear, take it as a sign that you’re doing something right. I used to tell myself to “write scared.” If I wasn’t pushing myself just slightly to the brink of discomfort, then I knew I was probably just settling, on one level or another.

So write scared. And as those fears arise—sometimes just little niggles and sometimes life-threatening monsters—try the following five ideas to help you use, live with, and perhaps overcome fear as a writer.

1. Feel the Hurt of What Scares You

For some people, this first step may not only be a no-brainer, but part of the problem. Some people have no difficulty accessing, feeling, and identifying their emotions. In fact, for some people the biggest problem is indulging too much in those emotions. But for me, as someone who has struggled with emotional repression, my first step is to make sure I am feeling the hurt or the fear.

Instead of immediately stuffing it or rationalizing it when it comes up, I try to notice it, look it square in the face, and literally feel whatever sensations are showing up in my body. My go-to defense is usually rationalizing my way around an unpleasant feeling (e.g., “I shouldn’t be upset; I agree with that person after all” or “who cares if one person didn’t like the book when I know lots of others do like it?”). Rationalizations are all fine and well in their place, but they don’t substitute for emotional honesty.

2. Choose Humility Over Defensiveness

Fear is a response that occurs either because something hurt us or because experience tells us something could hurt us in the future. When we are hurt because a critique partner or family member criticizes a raw story, the experience is often compounded by our fears of what it means both about us as a person (“I’m a terrible writer!”) or the future of our dreams (“this story is doomed!”). In these situations, it’s incredibly easy (and often somewhat gratifying) to become defensive—sometimes to the point of turning the criticism right back on the other person.

More often than not, defensiveness is counter-productive. Unless we’re masters of self-delusion, our retorts aren’t likely to make us feel any better and they may indeed block us from making necessary corrections. Although humility should never become an excuse to let others dictate your view of yourself, your work, and your world, it is an invaluable tool for refining not just your understanding of story, but your understanding of life and yourself in it.

After you’ve given yourself some time to feel your hurt without getting defensive, take another moment to ask if there’s a core of truth to what the other person is suggesting. They may be dead wrong. But they may also be offering the key to your next great discovery—if only you have the courage to not just face your ego’s fear but walk on through it.

3. Embrace Your Own Wonderful Bravery

For many years, I have kept handy a quote from journalist Bill Stout:

Whether or not you write well, write bravely.

I do not always write well. That I write better today than I did yesterday, that perhaps my most recent novel is better than my first is in no way a guarantee that what I write now will be good enough to matter to anyone but me.

But I do write with all the bravery and honesty I can muster. This is a truth I can claim—and be proud of.

Last night, I took a walk under the November moon to process the hurt feelings and inevitable flash of fear that resulted from that negative review. There was, at first, the familiar threat from the wounded and scared part of myself: You don’t ever have to share your writing with anyone ever again!

From that comes a little flicker of false security, but it is quickly followed by the more mature and wise voice that says, No, of course, you will write again. And how brave you are to do so, my darling. How brave you are. 

And with that, I am at peace again—because I know I’d rather be brave and get hurt than be a coward in safety.

When you find yourself most afraid—when your insecurities are roaring their loudest—don’t forget that you are brave. Your writing may say truths about you that you don’t always like to face. But the one truth it always says is that you are a lionheart. Roar that back into the face of whatever scares you most.

4. Follow the Fear

Take your bravery in your hand and turn back around to face your fears full on. Claim “write scared” as your mantra. The very fact that you are afraid of what your writing says about you—and what others, in their turn, say about that, is something you can write about. They are opportunities to learn and to grow. More than likely, your fears are red arrows pointing straight at the thing you most need to work on.

Fear exists to protect us. So look at what you’re afraid of and why. You may have to dig past the surface, but what you find may well be something that is causing you real pain or holding you back in some vital way. Learn to hear what your fear is telling you.

Whenever you start feeling too safe or complacent, look around for something that scares you—whether it’s giving your story back to a critique partner whose honest feedback hurt you, or writing a scene that hits too close to home, or being honest about something that’s hard for you to admit even to  yourself. Lean into the fear. Conquer it, and it can no longer threaten you. There are still so many things I’m afraid of—in both life and writing—but there are also so many things that used to scare me but that now I have all but forgotten.

5. Turn Your Fears Into Truths

Finally, remember that everything you feel deeply in your own life is grist for the mill. Humans have this innate hubristic idea that we know so much about life–and I daresay writers are the worst offenders! But there’s knowing things and there’s knowing things. The more we know, gleaned from the depths of our own growing awareness of our lives, the more we can write with authenticity.

The person who left me that negative-but-ultimately-inspiring review didn’t know it, but much of what they criticized in that old book was due as much to my inexperience in life as any inexperience as a writer. They couldn’t know that, but I know it. I know my former self wrote with all the honesty and understanding she had. My current self tries to do that too but with the benefit of a decade’s worth of added experience—part of which includes the reflection brought about by a book review that hurt mostly because it was unwittingly a critique of that former self.

The only way writers can share words and stories of awareness and honesty is if we are doing our best to be aware and honest with ourselves. As our perspectives simultaneously refine and broaden, our stories inevitably become better. There’s no fear in that idea—just delightful hope.

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That writing is often scary is actually one of the most exciting things about it. Some people jump off cliffs, some people ride bulls, and some people write. After all, as the T-shirt says,

If you’re not living on the edge, then you’re taking up too much room.

By that logic, I don’t think there’s a writer alive who’s taking up too much room. Put your hand over your heart, feel that fear in your chest, breathe deep, and jump. Perhaps at the end of the day, it’s the thrill of conquering our fears that makes the words worth writing and life worth living.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! How have you overcome fear as a writer? Tell me in the comments!

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