My Worst Confidence Fails

Hard won lessons in writing confidence

The first time I ever read my work aloud, I had a panic attack.

I’d recently joined a small local writers’ group, and after a couple of months listening to people share their work, my turn came around. I'd brought along a short story that I was secretly quite proud of. I’d even been brave enough to submit it for publication in Mslexia magazine. As we gathered round the Formica tables in the chilly room above the library, I was very nervous. But it was time. I was ready, or so I thought.

As I began reading, my mouth went dry. Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. My heart started racing and my voice didn’t sound like my own. I took a sip of water, but my throat constricted. My vision began to darken at the edges, the words on the page shrinking down to a single bright white dot. I literally couldn’t read.

Convinced I was about to pass out, or have a heart attack, I manage to squeeze out: I’m sorry. I can’t.

At fifteen I had secured a coveted work experience placement at Radio Hallam, a local station in Sheffield. I knew I wanted to be a writer. I had admitted this to the school career’s advisor and been told that journalism was a sensible path. Perhaps an English degree. Then local news. For a while, I was sold.

Two weeks in the newsroom changed that. Being a journalist, it seemed, involved talking to strangers. The horror.

This being radio, it also involved writing copy for people to read on air. I was duly handed a press release – the first I’d ever seen – and instructed to write it up for the lunchtime broadcast. The poor, harried producer who had been put in charge of me for the day took one look at my attempt, told me I'd got it all wrong, and to try again. Embarrassed but keen to please, I tried again. A little better, he conceded, but still unusable. We were out of time. He sighed a frustrated sigh, snatched it back, and did it himself.

Unusable. He didn’t even tell me why. Or perhaps he did, but I’ve wiped that from my memory. All I heard was the message, loud and clear: You are a terrible writer. You don’t belong here. You can’t do this.

I believed my interpretation of his words for a long time. So, many years later, when I gathered all my courage and joined an evening class in creative writing, I still believed the story I had told myself as an anxious teenager with self-esteem issues.

This time: a London college, a real-life published author at the helm. Surely this would help me learn how to write. There, over twelve weeks, printouts of student work were distributed quietly, participants read in silence, and the tutor gently eviscerated whatever was on offer. It’s fair to say the standard was mixed. The quality of teaching adequate. But of course, what I remember most is the night it was my turn.

‘The trouble is, it’s just one cliché after another’, is the exasperated comment that so vividly springs to mind, all these years later. (From the real-life published author. He was right, of course, and trying to help, but I didn’t want to hear it.) My fragile confidence was bruised again, and I refused to share any more of my work in public.

Eventually, with the encouragement of others, I began sending short stories to small competitions and websites that published fiction. I had a couple of things long listed and published in tiny online journals. I attended writers’ workshops and conferences. I read the popular ‘how to’ books. I did all the things you’re supposed to do as an aspiring author. And, gradually, with small wins along the way, my self-belief and confidence grew. But I had never read my work to an audience.

So, there I was, that fateful evening at the writing group, gathering up my tattered courage and failing all over again.

Seeing my obvious struggle, a fellow attendee said gently, would you like me to read it for you? I have been grateful ever since for that sensitive intervention. That person read my story, and then, everyone gave their feedback.

But the feedback wasn't good. There were cutting remarks. The story, inspired by the cruelties of the Indian leather industry – I was a staunch vegan at the time – was far too gruesome and unbelievable. The narrative voice, that of a young child, was unconvincing. It didn’t really go anywhere. Back to the drawing board I must go with my weird cow story*.

I'm sure people must have said nice things too, but leaving that room, I didn't remember a single one. I only remembered the negativity. I was back there in the newsroom at Radio Hallam, desperately fighting back tears.

I didn’t really understand what had happened to me. I was ashamed and embarrassed by my failure to read. In my professional life I was competent and confident. A grownup. I stood in front of rooms of people and facilitated training courses. Why could I not do this one simple thing?

Because it mattered so much. Perhaps too much.

A month or so later, I got the email telling me that my weird cow story had been selected for publication in Mslexia magazine. I wept with joy, gratitude and relief.

I still have a pristine copy of that issue of Mslexia – January 2010, in case you’re wondering – that will remain a treasured possession forever. Here it is ⬇️

With hindsight, I learned some important things that day.

First, my writing is not for everyone, and nor should it be. I don’t need to take criticism so personally.

Second, there is such a thing as negativity bias. We tend to remember negative comments and forget the positive ones. I need to practice registering the positive.

Third, even if was excruciatingly difficult, each time I shared my work was a significant step on my path as a writer.

Forth, just because I’m confident in one area, doesn’t mean I’ll be confident in another, so I can stop beating myself up about that.

Fifth, confidence is earned. Getting there takes time and is not always easy. But if I don't ever try, I can't possibly succeed.

If you’d like to hear more about my writing confidence journey and learn how you might build your own writing confidence, join me on Thursday, 20 June 2024 for my next workshop for Inkwell members. I'll be exploring how we can grow our writing confidence in a way that is safe for us and aligns with our writing ambitions.

I would love to have this conversation with you.

All the details are here.

Till next time,

Katherine

P.S. I only went back to that writing group one more time – to tell them that the story was going to be published. Not my most gracious move, but hey, I’m only human 🫣

*If anyone would like to read my weird cow story, let me know – maybe I’ll post it on Substack 🤷🏻‍♀️