light and shadow on the writing journey

Some vulnerability about writing lately, by way of the Shire

I'm going to admit something that may surprise you if you've been around my newsletter or social media for any length of time: I've never read J.R.R. Tolkien's The Hobbit.

At least, I've never finished it. I tried once when I was about fifteen, and had just devoured Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings trilogy. The movies led me to Tolkien's books, and I became obsessed with Middle Earth in a way I've never grown out of. I enjoyed the depth and lore of the trilogy; the way it didn't shy away from grief and the weight of existence, which were emotions I felt deeply as a teen (and still do), but knew you weren’t supposed to wallow in or talk about too much.

My lovely, as-of-yet-unread copy of The Hobbit. Photo credit: Greta Valentine.

When I picked up The Hobbit and found that it began with dwarfs who were terrible house guests and sang lilting rhymes, I found myself missing the more serious tone of the trilogy and the characters I'd come to love. This story about dragons and gold just wasn't the same, so less than halfway through, I put The Hobbit aside and never picked it up again.

I've since come to appreciate the breadth of Tolkien's work - both the cozy hearths of the Shire and the heavy truth that the war against Sauron is one the free peoples of Middle Earth will never actually win within the circles of this world.

Still, it always bothered me that I hadn't just finished the book. When it became clear that fantasy was going to be an enduring part of my life, and maybe even the focus of a career, I went out of my way not to mention this gap in my reading. I'd imagine fellow writers judging me if they knew. You're an actual card-carrying member of The Tolkien Society, and you skipped the easiest one to read! I'd imagine them saying. You call yourself a fan?

There was another voice in my head that said things like don’t be silly; nobody cares about this as much as you do. This one was more persuasive, because it was closer to the truth. But it also implied another question: why can’t you just admit the semi-embarrassing thing and move on?

This was a fair question. I tend to believe that people who know me can read me like an open book, but the truth is, sometimes it’s hard to say the vulnerable thing when it’s real, and specific, and hits close to a well-guarded insecurity. I’m not very good at admitting those semi-embarrassing things, especially when they might make me look flawed, or painfully slow, or even willfully ignorant.

But if I've learned anything in seven years of writing, good usually comes from admitting the ways I'm floundering in spaces where I long to feel at home. When I don't, my work suffers, and so does the way I see myself. The semi-embarrassment becomes shame, and the imagined judgments of others become the voices in my own head. Real or not, they can keep me from showing up at all, because if I can't do the thing that everybody else has surely done, and do it quickly, and well, and visibly, then am I really doing it at all?

In case you haven't guessed, this is no longer just about never having read The Hobbit.

This is how I came to feel about my writing over the past year, and to be honest, about other spheres of life as well: my faith; my day job; my relationships. I felt like I was floundering in ways that were embarrassing to admit, even to myself.

In writing, this looked like burnout after feeling like I'd somehow involuntarily adopted a definition of success that no longer resonated with me. It looked like starting to revise my second novel and spiraling into what promised to be never-ending rewrites like the ones that caused me to trunk my first. It looked like having no completed book to show for seven years of work, and it was starting to freak me out. I stopped showing up online, stopped sending out newsletters, and even stopped writing for a while.

I want to pause here and acknowledge that you've probably heard me share similar sentiments here before. If I'm not careful, my updates can turn into a laundry list of things I struggle with in writing or life, with no acknowledgment of the good stuff, or the responsibility I have in those dynamics. I walk a hard line between acknowledging heaviness and wallowing in it. I do think acknowledgment is important; it's probably somewhat of a through-line in both my essays and my fiction that loss, pain, and uncertainty are just as inevitable as goodness, beauty, and joy. So often we slog through that heaviness without it being obvious to anyone else. I don’t want to leave my characters or my readers in those low places, but I want them to feel really seen while they’re there. Still, the idea is to find a way to keep moving ahead. Some things get heavy enough that you have to let them go.

So, in the case of my writing I did the semi-embarrassing thing and told my writing group how I was feeling. Their response was: are you sure things are as bad as you think? Is it possible that you keep rewriting your work because you're too close to it, and judging it too harshly? Would you be willing to show us, and let us point out some good stuff so you can get un-stuck and maybe have a little fun?

My initial response to this was not great. (You mean the result of my being vulnerable was a request for more vulnerability? No thanks!) I withdrew even more and felt even worse and wrote absolutely zero words. But in this case I knew I was wallowing, and I knew they were right, and I knew it was going to be a matter of time until I worked up the courage to send out my manuscript and just let go of all the anxiety I was holding onto. So I did.

I haven't even gotten notes back, but I felt almost instant relief. The words are flowing again. I diverged from the plan I had for this draft and let a new character in, and I've been having a lot of fun drafting her point of view.

I don’t say this because I now have all these dynamics where I was floundering figured out because of this one act. I'm sure this story will veer back into uncertainty at some point, as it is wont to do. But hopefully I'll remember what I did to let go of an anxiety that got too heavy to hold, and gently course-correct. Hopefully I’ll continue to find ways to keep moving forward.

And maybe, while I’m trying to get into the practice of embracing a little lightness, maybe I can finally read The Hobbit.