You Can't Build A House Without a Hammer, You Can't Create A Damn Thing Without Self Doubt
The process of witnessing a thing growing and maturing until it becomes a perfect illustration of a ghost.
“The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.” Sylvia Plath
If I had to guess, my initial theory is that Sylvia Plath probably dreamed this one up when she was writing “The Bell Jar.” Plath’s poetry always struck me as inspired explosions on the page. Where poets like TS Eliot and John Ashbery may have struggled for months and sometimes years to sculpt their great works, Plath’s always seemed like they were pieces of divine inspiration that needed very little revision after the fact. Call it an educated guess; and allow me to make another one.
The Bell Jar, Plath’s only novel, likely took anywhere from several months to a year to perfect. The process does not only take the discipline to sit down everyday and create pages, it requires a person to deceive themselves into believing that they’re doing something great. Like I said, this is not difficult in short bursts, but it is nearly impossible to avoid self-doubt consistently for that length of time. Obviously if you can’t convince yourself you’re creating something fabulous, you’ll find it impossible to continue to sit down and make those pages day after day.
It’s somewhat of a no brainer why most serious novelists stay out of complex relationships. Having to live with a single phenomenon that feeds you one day and tries to kill you the next day is more than enough. No one needs two.
Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, thank you. I’ll be here all week.
But seriously folks, there are aspects to self doubt that are integral to creating timeless art. For instance, if one were to listen to the Bob Dylan record from 1997 “Time Out Of Mind,” they might get the impression that Dylan was really feeling his own mortality. Songs like “Trying To Get To Heaven Before They Close The Door” and “Not Dark Yet” have the unmistakable vibe of a guy meditating on the finite curse of life itself. I will admit that, as a man in my fifties, the album hits a bullseye in my heart. A bullseye that wasn’t there in my twenties when it was released.
However, when you listen to the outtakes, which were only released in the last few years, you will see that these rather ominous sounding songs all began way more upbeat and major and gave no impression of that particular contemplation. Now this is something that can happen if there is a large gap between writing the lyrics and the music. Say, for example, Dylan wrote the lyrics when he was experiencing emotional turmoil but approached the music in a very different head space. That’s how this kind of incongruence can happen.
Either way, when he tried different takes that were more brooding and moody, it turned those songs into classics. The music didn’t simply match the lyrics, it added dimension and depth. It turned something beautiful and brimming with potential into something that was essentially living and breathing. It spoke to millions of people who felt exactly the same but couldn’t express it.
I imagine there were also people who could, not only not get in touch with these feelings, but may not have even known they existed until these songs brought them to the fore.
This is what has always gotten me jazzed up about creative work. The process of witnessing a thing growing and maturing until it becomes a perfect illustration of a ghost. An apparition that began as nameless and formless and ended up as perfect noise and chaos lassoed into a gilt frame. That’s what art is to me. And if that sounds too fanciful and lofty? Well, as Stephen King says, “‘Tough tittie,’ said the kitty.”
I hope I haven’t lost you—my main point is that Dylan sat in that control booth listening to playbacks and said “Time Out Of Mind” was a car with four tires going in different directions but somehow gets you to your destination. A response one might expect from an artist who knows self-doubt and is expert at working with it.
Now if self-doubt ceases to be a detriment and changes, instead, to a vehicle one uses to drive their creative output the way Dylan does, they need to have four or five rules of the road:
1-Self doubt works when it’s driving you toward improvement. It doesn’t work when it paralyzes you. Therefore, one should be sparing about how much to dwell in there.
2-Never let anyone near your novel until you’ve written a second draft. Self doubt is one thing, having someone’s shitty opinion reinforce those feelings is poison.
3-As heartless and insensitive as it sounds, no one should write unless they absolutely have to. It’s a painful and oftentimes wretched practice and is not meant to be a hobby. It’s a vocation. A lifestyle. A calling. Not a past time. Shuffleboard is a pastime. Writing is torture.
4-Develop a sense of humor about your vision. Becoming a published writer is as close to impossible as marrying someone and living happily ever after. It happens, yes, but it’s rare.
5-Finally, on that note, never stop querying, never stop trying. That was the key to my first book deal. Even when a thousand people tell you that your book sucks, remember, someone is going to give you an advance if you don’t stop trying.
So, the answer is obvious: don’t stop trying.
Thanks, I needed this now. Writing is my Methadone I need it. If I can get out of my head and into the process I'm alive and the pain subsides. The self-doubt does come from external noise that slowly creeps in. This has been more of a challenge of late. I'm working on rewiring and processing those neural pathways. Ironically my biggest fear is a big success cause how can you beat it? Fear of Success is crazy to most but to a writer? I think we all understand.
Thanks Billy. I will hold onto this one for a bit to come back to and read again. Now it's time for me to post my weekly submission.