There are things I want to write that I don’t know if I can afford to say. I don’t mean I haven’t found the right words. Finding words is what I do. I am referring to the possible consequences of putting them where other people can read them, and those consequences reach beyond an uncomfortable afternoon in the comments. They can affect relationships, invitations, support, employment, and book sales. They can affect people I love who never agreed to pay the price of something I felt compelled to publish. That is a difficult reality for someone whose work is built around finding words and sharing them.
People might assume I hold nothing back, but it’s not true. I often feel like Anne Shirley in Anne of Green Gables who famously said, “I know I chatter on far too much…but if you only knew how many things I want to say, and don’t. Give me some credit.”
That’s me.
There’s so much more I want to say, but if I want to do things like eat or pay the mortgage, I don’t say them unless it’s over dinner with a few close friends who have never betrayed my confidence.
People often encourage writers to be authentic. Find your voice, they say. Tell the truth, and be brave enough to say what other people are thinking. I believe in all of that. I also know that when a writer follows that advice, the people applauding may not be the people helping her absorb the consequences. They can close the browser and go on with their day. She still has to live with what happens next.
When your voice is also your livelihood
Writing is deeply personal work, but it is also work. Most writers need to keep their day job. Books also need to sell to keep getting opportunities to write more, in the traditionally published arena. For many of us, writing income is one part of a larger collection of responsibilities and relationships that keep our households going. We write from our convictions while remaining aware that readers, employers, ministry partners, publishers, and event hosts have convictions of their own. And let’s be real…we are living in a crazy world where some people aren’t even speaking to their immediate family members anymore because of who they voted for. Sigh.
Disagreement is part of life. I don’t expect everyone to agree with me, and purchasing one of my books does not obligate anyone to purchase the next one. Still, it hurts to consider that someone who has valued years of your work might reconsider the entire relationship over something you finally felt you needed to say. You begin asking questions before you ever press “publish.”
Have I said this fairly? Can I support it? Is this mine to address? Have I protected the privacy of people whose stories intersect with mine?
Those are necessary questions. They make our writing better, and they also come with additional questions…
Who will be upset? What might this cost? Will someone read a meaning into it that I never intended? Could this affect my family? Will the conversation become so consuming that I cannot do the rest of my work?
By the time a piece is finished, you may have spent as much energy anticipating its consequences as you spent writing it.
The words that stay in the drafts folder
Sometimes I write something and feel a sense of relief. There it is. What has been pressing on me finally has language. I can’t wait to release it to the world. Then I read it again with my responsibilities in mind. Heck, I write it with all the first world things I love in mind, not wanting to lose them.
The words may still be true, and the argument matters just as much. And not for nothing, but I probably spent hours trying to say it just right. In the end, I decide to keep it to myself. Or my husband tells me that if I’m wise, I won’t publish it, because I’ll face ramifications on my job, in the church, or with things like book sales or followers online, which is also a part of my income. (Not only do many writers get paid for their social media posts, but book contracts depend on the amount of social media followers, and engagement of such, with most traditional publishers.)
That decision to delete the draft can be wise and still hurt. A lot! There are times I ruminate over an unpublished post for days, angry that my circumstances demand I don’t post it. In those moments I almost always call a close friend and hash out what I wanted to say so badly and feel like the ramifications would just be too great. Truth be told, my best friends get the best material. The greatest literary gems are often on the cutting floor…verbal scraps but worth more than the product the public sees.
The anger does not necessarily leave because the document is closed, even after talking it through with a friend. The concern does not resolve because I have chosen a quieter day over a potentially contentious one. I still carry what prompted me to write in the first place, along with the disappointment of having nowhere public to put it. For a writer, that can feel especially lonely. Writing is one of the ways we work through life. We name what troubles us, make connections, ask questions, and hope our words will help someone else understand their own experience. Keeping a piece private means giving up the possibility of that connection, at least for now.
Sometimes I grieve the conversation I hoped it would begin. In some cases, I grieve how I thought the piece might even in some small way, change the world.
The limits of “just be yourself”
I understand why people say, “Just be yourself.” Most of us long for relationships in which we do not have to rehearse every sentence. But being yourself in public becomes complicated when different parts of your life depend on the same audience. A reader may also be a ministry partner. A colleague may also be a friend. I could count on more than two hands people who have left the church or the ministry I lead because of a blog post. Some might say, “Well, that’s just immature of them to do that.” Yes, and that immaturity costs. Someone who invites you to speak may also have influence over other opportunities. You cannot always predict how far one disagreement will travel.
And when someone says, “If people walk away, they were never your people,” I think about how much more complicated actual relationships are. Some people misunderstand and later reconsider. Some can tolerate disagreement on one subject and struggle with another. Some relationships are worth patiently working through. Others turn out to have conditions we did not recognize until we approached them. We do not always know which kind of relationship we have until something tests it. That uncertainty is part of the tightrope.
Will retirement make me freer?
I used to tell my husband, “I can’t wait until retirement when I can finally say what I want to say!” But will that actually be reality?
Pastor Dan Betzer, one of the most well known ministers in the Assemblies of God (of which I am a minister) used to often quip that one day when he didn’t need ministerial credentials anymore, he was going to write a “tell-all” book. I was hoping he wasn’t kidding. The other day I said to my husband, “Dan is retired, and up there in age, and we still don’t have the tell-all book. I am not okay.” Larry said, “He’s retired but probably wanted to keep his credentials for life. I feel like we are really missing out. I wanted to hear everything he had to say and was holding in.
Larry reminded me this week that I will be writing for life, and hopeful that people will read. Relationships and income will still be important for me in retirement. While some pressures may ease, others will undoubtedly remain. I find that sobering. I don’t want to spend my working years waiting for a future in which honesty becomes effortless, only to discover that the future has its own expenses.
I need a way to live with integrity now, within the life I actually have. Honestly, I wrestle with this all the time.
Restraint can be wise—and painful
I don’t believe authenticity requires unrestricted access to my thoughts. Some things belong in prayer, a journal, a private conversation, or a draft that needs more time. Some words need revision. Some subjects require knowledge I have not yet gained. Sometimes the people urging caution can see consequences I am too angry or too close to the issue to recognize.Listening to them can be an act of maturity. But I want room to acknowledge the sadness that can accompany a responsible decision.
I can understand why I should wait and still wish I didn’t have to. I can respect the counsel of someone who loves me and still feel frustrated by the circumstances that make that counsel necessary. Gratitude for my work does not erase that tension. Neither does faith.
I can bring the whole struggle to God, including the parts that do not sound particularly polished or spiritual.
Finding somewhere for the words to go
I am learning that deciding against publication does not mean I have to swallow everything I feel.
I can write the full draft. I can tell the truth in a private place, and I can also send the draft to a few close friends, letting them know it’s a private communication, and ask for a conversation about it. I can talk with someone trustworthy who will help me examine my thinking without demanding that I pretend I am fine. Then I can return to the question of what, if anything, belongs in public.
Perhaps the piece needs time. Maybe it needs a different approach. There might be a smaller, more useful point I can make. Or it could be that I need to address something directly with a person rather than write about it for an audience. And sometimes I may still decide that speaking publicly is worth the cost. The fruit of the spirit most crucial for a writer to have is self control. Without it, you might end up homeless or at the very least not being able to get your nails done anymore.
What I hope readers understand
Behind a writer’s published words are decisions you never see. There are sentences she reconsidered, details she protected, and pieces she could not bring herself to release. There may be subjects she is still trying to understand and others she understands painfully well. Her public work is real, but it is not the whole of her inner life.
If you are a writer carrying something you cannot yet publish, I understand that ache. There may be good reasons for your decision, and you are still allowed to feel the loss. You do not have to turn it immediately into a lesson. You do not have to call it peace before it feels peaceful. You can acknowledge that you wanted to speak, and that you weighed the expense. You can also admit that the words are still there.
For now, I am asking God to help me remain honest in the places where I can speak, attentive in the places where I need to listen, and courageous when the time comes to say something difficult. And when I close a draft I wish I could publish, I am asking Him to meet me there.
0 Comments