Confidence, Meet Doubt. Doubt, Shake Hands with Confidence

The past few days I’ve heard or read several writers refer to their doubt. They ask: Should I stop writing? Or how can I begin again, wrestling down or past doubt? Will my words ever be good enough to match those of writers I love or the vision in my head? Do I deserve to spend even ten minutes of my day on something I remember loving?

My heart aches when I hear this from writers whose work I’ve loved. I want to jump in and punch Doubt until she weeps. But I know I can’t. Doubt is big and strong and has complicated histories with each of us.

I can only offer my own tricks with Doubt and her nasty language, her snippy habits. As my blog title suggests, I find it helps to let Doubt into the room and personify her, even at the risk of sounding too much like the crazy poet. This gets Doubt out from crawling under my skin, which is not only itchy but cumbersome. I don’t offer her tea and cookies, but she’s around, tending to take the shape of a few almost-lost-to-history-but-not-quite family members and teachers. I like to dress her in really ugly clothes before sending her to the corner to rant and mutter. Which she will. But I start to wonder why I’m listening to someone who’s so sniffly and bad-mannered?

And so there comes the matter of sticking it out. When Doubt slips in, it’s  tempting to leave the room and do something that doesn’t call her up. My Doubt does have some good points after all, things I can’t deny. But if I let her be, her mean spirit and good arguments start to fade. I start to find a few good words on my paper, and I let those give me hope more will come. That hope gets to wear the soft sweater, the sparkly earrings, and maybe curl on a branch of the tree outside my window. Does she wear the pointy glasses I had in fourth grade, or fill notebooks as fast as I did then? No. She knows a bigger world. But I like the way she shakes her head softly at our companion Doubt, drooling in the corner. I can almost feel sorry for her. Almost.