What Writers Don't Know (A Love Letter)

Thoughts from a writing workshop in France

Our wonderful writers.

I’m writing to you from a small apartment in Ceret that we moved into yesterday afternoon after a long day of saying goodbye to our writers, fumbling with lock boxes and keys that didn’t work and carting garbage and luggage around. As I write, a brass-ish band is playing—loudly—in the square a few feet away. This morning was Le Ronde Ceretane, a footrace through the town and surrounding hills, and this afternoon the festivities. Runners and others sit at long tables in the square, eating paella, drinking wine, and singing along with the band.

(Pretend this is a photo of long tables set in the sun with people drinking wine in the hot afternoon sun. For some reason, my phone does not like sending pix to my laptop today.)

As mentioned, our writers left for parts afar—Paris, Barcelona, Turkey, back to the states—yesterday, after the last day of our workshop on Friday. We love all our students and all our workshops, but this one was particularly good, with writing of a high quality. And yet all of them had one thing in common, which is where my headline—what writers don’t know—comes in. So here we go. Here’s what writers don’t know.

Okay, wait, first a story.

A long-time friend who is a photographer specializing in headshots for women often told me that she wished there was one thing she could tell her clients. That one thing? How beautiful they are. Her clients fussed and fumbled as they sat for the shoot, talking about how they weren’t photogenic, hated having their photo taken, didn’t know how to smile naturally, just didn’t like pictures of themselves.

(Brief aside: the band is now playing La Cucaracha. A few minutes ago it was Happy Birthday. I couldn’t quite make out how they got the French words for happy birthday, Joyeux Anniversaire into the melody.)

Of course, the underlying message of these comments was this: they weren’t good enough. They weren’t worthy.

You can probably see where I’m going with this. Those clients of my photographer friend remind me of our writers. Rare is the one who will happily read her writing without first fussing and fumbling through an apology about how it didn’t really turn out the way she wanted, she just couldn’t quite get it to work, she’s really not that great of a writer.

But I’m here to tell you: what writers don’t know is how good they are. Just like the women my friend took pictures of who didn’t realize how beautiful they are. And you who are reading this are likely the same. I know this because most all of the writers I’ve worked with through the years are.

(Oh, and the band has now gone onto Guantanamera.)

During my MFA days, one of our mentors lectured a friend of mine as she was presenting her creative thesis to him. And, apologizing about how it wasn’t good enough, yadda yadda yadda. He told her that believing in and sticking up for your own work is not egotistical. Rather, it is what writers need to do. To totally mix up stories here, as I used to tell my children when I would march angrily to the principal’s office when they were in trouble,¹ “If I’m not going to stick up for you, who is?” Right? Amiright?

But we are grown-ass humans and we need to start by sticking up for ourselves. With luck, with any luck at all, we will have developed a writer’s support system to help us. But it starts with you. And only you can develop the internal system that will allow you to believe this. In truth, a lot of it comes from devoting yourself to the work, writing regularly and sticking with it. I know you can do it.

Anyway, next week I’ll be writing to you from Italy. And there’s already a story to tell about that, but you’ll have to wait.

Also, because of the way this day has gone it is now evening here! And I have had a couple glasses of wine. You might have guessed? Please forgive me if this newsletter is a bit off it’s usual kilter.

Love, light and good writing,

Charlotte

P.S. I have no idea what time you’ll be getting this missive on Sunday, or if it will be Sunday when it arrives in your inbox. But it is Sunday in France as I write, so that’s close enough for me.

P.P.S. Tell me about a time you knew your worth as a writer—or a time when you didn’t. Or anything else you want to chat about.

I don’t have my usual sections (Resources, Books) because I’ve been too busy to assemble them. Instead you get photos.

I wish there were more, but as noted above, my phone and laptop do not wish to communicate with each other today.

1. Okay, in fairness to my daughter, she never got in enough trouble that I had to go to the principal’s office. My son, however was a different story. Don’t tell him I told you that.