I’ll Take the Bruising Over the Not-Trying

Five lessons from sharing and submitting my writing

Looking back at the last few years, I see stacks of proof pointing to how much braver I’ve become in my writing life.

I’ve traded in newsletter writing (and the belief that writing to support a business was the only writing worth doing) for personal essays, started a Substack, joined a community of fellow craft-focused writers, found a Monday Morning Writing Group and made it an unskippable part of my week. I’ve attended craft workshops, written poems for the first time, volunteered one to be workshopped by my peers and mentor (and didn’t die!), fallen in love with braided essays and tried my hand at them, invested in an in-person writing retreat, and, as of this week, began submitting my work.

It’s a vulnerable thing, sending your work out into the literary world to be seen and scrutinized by fancy editors, evaluated and possibly misunderstood, accepted or rejected.

About a week ago I submitted one of my favorite essays for the first time—not to be published exactly, but to receive a tailored list from an editor of places I might consider submitting the piece to help it find a home. I got the response email this week, much faster than expected, and when I opened it I felt my face go hot. My letter did not look like the warm, encouraging sample I saw on the sales page. Mine contained words like “muddled” and “retooling”, citing details from my essay that were straightforwardly incorrect. I felt embarrassed, misunderstood. Sheepish for expecting full-throated support.

It’s been a few days and I’m pleased to report the bruise on my ego is recovering nicely, and I’d say I’m almost ready to get back in the figurative saddle. In the meantime, as I shake off any lingering ick and gear up to keep putting my work into the world, here’s a short list of encouraging whispers I wish I’d received just before opening that email. Maybe you could use them, too.

1. Your favorite writers have received rejections and 1-star reviews.

As writers and artists we hear things like “your writing won’t be for everyone.” They sound a lot like platitudes—so much so that we might nod absently and let them float by like wispy clouds, until a rejection letter or a grumpy reader comes along to remind us that those words actually mean something.

The thing is, criticism is hardly proof of failure. Every single one of your favorite things has its own staunch critics. Whatever makes it your favorite is the same thing that made someone else scrunch up their face or wave it off completely. What if the artist allowed the threat of a few furrowed brows or bad reviews stop them from making it?

Show me an artist who has never received criticism or rejection, and I’ll show you someone who hasn’t taken the kind of chance with their work that made their knees go wobbly.

2. Feedback is an offering, not law.

I’ve come to understand (somewhat begrudgingly) that we cannot truly grow as writers without putting our work in front of other people. With visibility comes feedback, and that feedback will be mixed—in tenor, yes, but also in substance.

In the writing community I’m part of, whenever we gather for workshopping and feedback sessions our leader likes to remind us, “We believe the writer is sovereign here.”

Not every piece of feedback should be taken. And in fact, discerning which feedback warrants consideration (even when it stings) and which we’d prefer to bow to without heeding is one of the most important things we can learn how to do as artists.

3. Don’t let embarrassment trick you into hurting alone.

The first thing I did after I read that email was scurry upstairs to take a shower, where I could cry by myself without any witnesses. I have a long history of working hard to pull myself together before I reach out to friends or loved ones about whatever is hurting, while insisting in the same breath that no friend of mine should have to suffer alone or put themselves through that.

It’s true what they say about shame:

“Shame cannot survive being spoken. It cannot tolerate having words wrapped around it. What it craves is secrecy, silence, and judgment. If you stay quiet, you stay in a lot of self-judgment.”

— Brené Brown

I’m so grateful to be actively unlearning that nonsense-programming, and to have a partner and friends who know how to witness me without trying to fix me, receive my sniffly voice memos, hold me so sweetly and validate my big blubbery feelings. (

Marissa Burdett

and

Jordan Shea Page

what would I even do without you.)

Ted gets it.

4. You make art for reasons that go beyond craft and feedback.

It’s true that I care about craft—that I value getting feedback, and that I want to become a stronger writer. But it’s equally true that I write because I can’t not write. Writing keeps me fed, keeps me alive, keeps me curious and engaged with the world. The insights and meaning I glean from writing my essays have pressed themselves into my heart and mind, and expanded the ways I understand myself and the world. I wouldn’t trade that for anything, and I’m not about to let one editor’s opinion take that from me.

5. Sharing your work is not for the faint of heart, but it’s worth doing.

I remember years ago when I was standing on the brink of a big decision that would upend my life, and my mom reminded me over the phone one night that things worth having don’t always come easy. It sucks, but she’s right.

Choosing over and over to stay connected to my wildness will mean learning to weather discomfort in the name of things worth doing, having, and experiencing. Making art and putting it into the world isn’t for the faint of heart, but for me at least, it’s work worth doing.

The Webs We Weave is a place for meaning-makers, featuring essays that weave lived experience with fascinations and sharp-toothed questions as I tangle with what kind of woman I want to be. Thank you for being here.