The Writer’s Dance
Moving from Shadow to Spotlight 🌟
When I was a kid, I loved to dance.
I took lessons in tap and modern dance, and every year the dancing school I attended put on a show. Friends and family would gather in a community hall to watch us perform routines we’d practised for months. Mums made the costumes (yes, always the mums — it was the early 80s). Then, on the night, we’d plaster ourselves in glitter and stage makeup and huddle excitedly backstage, waiting for our moment. For ten minutes, once a year, we were The Kids from Fame. I loved it.
But there was also a tension I didn’t have language for yet: I wanted to be seen… and I was terrified of being seen.
I still recognise that tension today, and I’ve come to realise it’s something many writers carry too.
When I was eleven we moved to a new city, and I joined a new dance school. Their annual show was on an entirely different scale, staged at Sheffield City Hall, the very same venue – my mum told me – The Beatles had once played. Back then, it was the premier local venue for touring acts, and countless famous feet had strutted across those boards.
Our routine was set to a 70s disco medley, building to the Bee Gees’ Stayin’ Alive. At the climax, one dancer would step into the centre of the stage and do their best John Travolta while the rest gyrated in a circle around them.
It was decided without consultation: I would be that dancer.
I was the tallest in the class. Apparently, I was needed for my proportions.
At eleven, I was already well into puberty. Taller than everyone else, curvier than everyone else, and painfully aware of my changing body. Adults called it puppy fat. The bullies had other names. I had the excruciating self-consciousness of any pimple-faced tween in a B-cup. The thought of standing in that spotlight, in skin-tight spandex, the enthusiastic slogan ‘Dance! Dance! Dance!’ emblazoned across my burgeoning chest, while the whole world looked on, was nothing short of a waking nightmare. The horror! The horror! The horror!
Not for the last time, I cursed my height and my expanding hips.
It wasn’t just the prospect of attention that put me off. I was terrified of getting it wrong and making a fool of myself. The dance itself wasn’t complicated, but the fear made it seem impossible. In rehearsals, I made mistakes. I might step out of sync, or make the wrong turn, or land off-centre and upset the whole choreography. So, I practised. I practised at home, after school, roping in my sister as coach. Nothing worked. I kept messing up. I wanted to quit.
But something wouldn’t let me. Deep down, I wanted that spotlight.
Alongside the crippling self-consciousness was something else — a desire to be seen. A craving for validation, perhaps, or approval. I had been chosen; I wanted to be the star of the show. But most of all, I wanted to prove to the bullies – and to myself – that I could do it right.
That push-pull – wanting attention while simultaneously wanting to hide – is still familiar today. It plays out all the time in my life as a writer.
I want to be read, but I dread negative reviews and rejection. I want to be traditionally published, but I delay taking the actions that will make that possible. I want my books to sell, so I make promotional plans but then don’t enact them. I’m great at shouting about other people’s successes, but shy about my own. I write things – posts, articles, stories – and don’t share them.
I tell myself I’m too busy, or it’s not the right moment. But what’s really going on is fear. Fear of being seen. Fear of what others think. Fear of standing in that spotlight and risking others seeing all those things I’m most self-conscious about. It’s got easier over the years, but it’s still there.
I know I’m not the only author who battles with this dual desire: to be seen, to be read, to be commercially successful, and to hide away from the world in some sort of 19th century fantasy version of a novelist’s life.
We choose writing for a reason – or maybe it chooses us. Writers tend toward introspection. To write we need to go inward. Publishing asks us to go outward, which is why that transition can feel so deeply uncomfortable. We write in the shadows; publishing puts us in the spotlight.
This is where I think many writers get stuck — believing that this dichotomy means they’re doing something wrong. That if it feels this uncomfortable, they must not be cut out for it. That ‘real’ writers don’t feel like this. That’s not true. It just means you care. A lot. And, in my experience, it’s normal to feel that way.
Acknowledging the fear is a first step to managing it. It’s something we all have to tackle if we want to put our work out into the world. Here are a few ways to do that:
Practice. Not the choreography this time, but baby steps toward visibility. What’s the smallest step you can take? Share a post? Submit a story? Introduce yourself as a writer? The fear might not dissolve right away, but you learn to ‘feel the fear and do it anyway’.
Find safe spaces. Writers’ groups, workshops, open mics — places where you can practice with the safety net of shared experience and mutual support.
Question your motives. When you find yourself making excuses to hide, ask yourself what’s really going on. Are you too busy to enter that writing competition, or are you scared of rejection? Do you need to have a professional photoshoot before you launch your Substack, or are you just afraid to press publish?
Reframe. Can you flip it? Are those pre-publication nerves actually excitement? Are the butterflies really curiosity about how people will respond? Sometimes we experience physical reactions that our brain interprets as fear, but which might be something else.
Calm your nervous system. I’m no expert, but there’s a lot we can do to calm our nervous systems in times of high stress. From breathing exercises, visualisation or meditation, to cold showers and even dancing — finding a personal ritual or physical resource can help in those moments before you step into the spotlight.
Be kind. Sometimes you genuinely need to retreat. You might not have the bandwidth to engage with the wider world right now. That doesn’t mean you’re failing. It means you know your limits.
If this was fiction, I’d finish my story with a moment of high dramatic tension. You know how it would go. Eleven-year-old me would be standing on that stage, trembling with stage fright, facing down my one chance to prove myself in front of the audience. The lights dim. The music starts. And of course… I’d nail it. The crowd would go wild. Confidence unlocked forever.
But that’s not how real life works. I don’t actually remember the performance itself. I’m sure it was fine. And that is a lesson: these fears that feel so huge and overwhelming at the time, often aren’t. We’re just trying to protect ourselves, out there in the spotlight, hoping not to fall over in front of everyone. And some days, that’s enough.
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Katherine, this is so true. FEAR! You penned it very nicely in this post. Could relate. Thank you. Dita
Thanks Katherine for sharing this. I can really relate to this dance. Good to know that we’re not dancing alone.