hi my darling. you & your books mean the world to me. as an aspiring writer, i was wondering if you ever had doubt about your story and characters before publishing?
Doubt is the human habitat. Don’t trust anyone who doesn’t have any.
That said, I think it changes character as you become more sure of who you are and what you’re capable of and when you’ve gotten some experience under your belt. Nowadays I doubt if I’ve written a character well; that’s survivable. But back in the day, I used to doubt if I was writing myself well. That’s the only doubt that I think can stop you fully in your tracks.
Here is a tale of my life when I was fourteen or so. I was a pretty grim creature at fourteen — I was at the same time the best version and worst version of Maggie Stiefvater as she exists now. All dials were turned up to max (this may still be true, except I broke the knobs off a few of the negative and destructive ones and worked out how to handle the one labeled obsessive compulsive disorder). All of the Hummel siblings were neck-deep in playing Celtic traditional music, and my father signed us up for a week long program called Gaelic Roots at Boston College — a week of the denizens of Irish music teaching small workshops to other musicians. We drove up there from Virginia, and I was dazzled by this jittery, caffeinated city with its toes dug into history. I was dazzled, too, by the musicians I’d grown up listening to sitting right across the room from me, teaching bodhran and guitar and balladry. I was dazzled, too, by the existence of other humans, and I spent an enormous amount of time lurking in stairwells with my hands over the back of my head and my forehead pressed against my knees and my heart racing.
During breaks I would sneak into the room with the big grand piano in it and play in order to keep myself from running out into traffic shouting who am I what is happening is it always going to be like this do I make it.
Like I said, I was a pretty grim creature.
I remember that I was in a songwriting class with one of my idols, Robbie O’Connell. We all sat around him with our guitars — a handful of adults and blank-eyed psychopathic me — and played samples of things we had composed. When it came to my turn, I confessed that I didn’t really know how to play the guitar, but I’d signed up for his workshop anyway just to hear him teach about music composition. He asked if I wrote. Yes, but on the piano. Well, he said, then play me a song on the piano. Face burning, I walked to the big old piano and played one, and there was silence, and then he said, “I have nothing to teach you. One day you’re going to be famous.”
It was the worst thing I had ever heard.
I’d come there for a Yoda and now I was being told that I was still on my own, fumbling my way forward through this airless life. Doubt! All I did was doubt. Was I supposed to be a writer? A composer? An artist? Was I any good? Could I make a living? I was going to be famous — oh yeah, Yoda, how was that? I was looking for a mentor. Someone to tell me how to make it as an artist and as a human! A little practical advice here! Tell me what to do next! Tell me how it ends! Only I didn’t say that. I just shrugged like the socially awkward blanket I was and sat back down with my guitar that I knew three chords on.
Later in the week, Robbie O’Connell found me as I was walking between buildings at lunch break. I still don’t know what motivated him to track me down, but it was one of those minutes that ends up changing your life forever. Because I finally worked up the courage to ask him: “What do I do next?” and he thought about it and said, “I guess you should go home and start a band.”
I did. And it changed my life. Years later Ballynoola and I had gigged up and down the east coast and I’d written some novels and I had half a clue of who I was as a human. Was I famous for my music? No, but I knew now that if I tried hard enough to put myself out there, it would get heard. I didn’t know when I’d get published, but I knew enough about myself now to know that I wouldn’t stop until I did. I knew enough about myself to know that I was just going to put the pedal to the floor and finger gun the scenery as it blew by.
So what is the moral of this story? That doubt of the sort that paralyzed me is mostly behind me. Doubting your purpose, your path, yourself — that’s the kind that stops you forever and puts you in a desk job that you resent. Doubting if you’ve pulled off the right choice within a chapter? I’ll figure it out. I’ve figured it out before; I’ll figure it out again. Doubting if you’ll get published? If I don’t get this book sold, I’ll write a better one, and I’ll sell that one. I’ve figured it out before; I’ll figure it out again.
Actually, maybe that’s why self-doubt of my life choices no longer stops me, too. I’ve figured it out before; I’ll figure it out again.
I reckon that makes the answer to your question yes.
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