Writing Group

I am in a writing group for the first time in my life.  (Do not let that sway you to think that the group is responsible for the quality of these blogs. I take all responsibility.)  After a virtual (in the old sense of “nearly” as opposed to the new sense of “not really”) lifetime of writing, this is my first experience with such a group.  My lack of crowd sourcing for criticism is not because I do not play well with others.  I do.  Mostly in the past I did not have the time.  Now I love the biweekly meetings of the seven or so women who comprise the group, except when my work is up for comment.  In those instances, my multiple insecurities manifest themselves with remarkable ease and agility.

Early on in my participation in the group, I keenly anticipated opportunities to show my work .  I was sure I had a brilliant concept in my in-progress text that astutely commingled theoretical discussions of gender with mini-memoir.  Alas, while each of my few sessions commenced and concluded with validating observations from others about the worthiness of my ideas and writing, any praise was soon buried, from my perspective, by a veritable cavalcade of criticism.  (That I, as many others do I am confident, gloss over the positive responses is not a surprise.  Disapprobation is almost always more seductive than affirmation.  (Is that a woman thing?))  While these negatives were frequently in the guise of solutions for issues I might have suspected, they were also often correctives for issues I was not even aware existed.  Why, for instance, did people object to my use of parenthesis?

My repertoire of response to the assessments of the women in my writing is unfortunately limited.   The first problem is that I, as do many others I am sure, perceive my writing as a proxy for myself.  So challenges to the content, organization, and style of my writing (grammar and mechanics are rarely issues—I have, after all, been a teacher of writing for many years) are assaults on my intelligence, lucidity, and fashion sense as well as on my personality in general.   Thus, in defense of the integrity and coherence of my very self, I begin my post- having been up days dominated by an irritated conviction that my readers simply do not know what they are talking about, do not understand my innovative style, and are unaware of my general overall brilliance.  This hole of identifying with the work, with its concomitant disbelief that what I thought was wonderful perhaps was not, takes a few sometimes teary days to dig out of.   

I emerge focused on the writing and to the daunting question of what to do with this criticism.  After all, what if they are right?  This possibility brings with it a sometimes dispiriting awareness of a plentitude of faults and failings as well as a disheartening sense of ignorance about how to repair them.   Which bring me to my other difficulty.  Even if I accept that perhaps my work could use some editing, I do not know how to take advice from folks other than some therapists and my lover.  This is not because I think I am always right.  Au contraire.  It is because I lack confidence in my own judgment (another female thing?).  This is not a surprise as an astrologist warned me many years ago that I am ruled by my unconscious, which I have taken to mean I am never really sure that what I think I think is what I think.  OK, I know this is basically the definition of how the unconscious works.  Still, in spite of my knowledge of the universal applicability of this understanding of the unconscious (assuming there is indeed some validity to the idea of the unconscious),  I have taken my astrological chart personally and to heart as the foundational, explanatory motif of much of my life.  What else could I conclude as early ignorance and stunned late discovery of what apparently had been on my mind all along has marked my life?  (For instance, my first breakup took me totally by surprise when I initiated it by having what was called, in the old days, a nervous breakdown.   Who knew I was so unhappy?  I didn't.)  As I result of this psychological situation, I am easily swayed by the generally well-intentioned and very possibly good advice of almost anyone who may have an insight into the world of consciousness that I lack.  In other words, I cave in in my uncertainty and insecurity, undermining what I thought I had in mind since I am rarely sure of the genuineness of what I think I have in my mind.  (I know that this insecurity and suggestibility is rooted not really in the stars but in my relationship with my mother, whose voice in my head has proved immortal, but I am not going to go into that now.) This is sometimes good but often leaves me further in the lurch of uncertainty, insecurity, and frustration.

But then I take a breath, try to sort the wheat from the chaff as they say, revise, and come back to submit another day.  This is what I call modern maturity.