Two weeks ago, I had to tell a potential client that I couldn’t commit to the project we’d been discussing.

I really didn’t want to have that conversation. They were expecting me to sign a contract soon, and I knew they’d be disappointed. But if I didn’t say something, the gnawing feelings would only keep gnawing. My intuition had spoken, and I had to speak up, too. 

Fortunately, the person was gracious and understanding, and we found a compromise without much trouble. (Those conversations are never as fearsome as they seem.)

Later, I was washing the dishes when out of nowhere came a little frisson of pleasure. A snatch of satisfaction. I felt great! It wasn’t just that I was free of a project that wasn’t right for me. It was that I knew on a gut level: I can trust myself. 

I can trust that I have my own back. That I can handle hard conversations. That I’ll be my own strongest advocate.

This wasn’t always the case. Years ago I might’ve gone through with the project simply to avoid disappointing anyone. (Like when Mark in Peep Show doesn’t want to marry Sophie, but he goes along with the engagement anyway. To Jez: “It would be too embarrassing to tell her how I really feel.” Jez: “So you’re going to marry her out of embarrassment?” Mark, sighing: “There are worse reasons.”)

Self-trust in life is a major part of living well. And self-trust in writing is a major part of writing well.

What do I mean by that. Well, on the flip side, here’s what happens if you try writing without self-trust: you will feel attacked and obligated by all feedback. You will be knocked off your feet by a random stranger’s opinion. You will not defend the precious seedlings of your idea; instead, you will let other people stomp all over them. And you will be the one left in the wreckage, dismayed and confused because you’ve betrayed yourself and let your plantlings die. 

I’ve seen this happen with entrepreneurs as well as writers. It’s the same thing. People who don’t trust themselves don’t follow their own inner compass–no matter how talented or visionary they are. They start off on their own path, but as soon as someone comes along and says “No, do it this way,” the person says, “Oh, okay, that’s probably better,” and they go astray. They lose their way, their vision, the pleasure in their work, their motivation. Their work loses its shine and originality. 

And they are left adrift, wondering what went wrong.

*

In 2013 I won a major writing contest. The editors called to gush over my story. “Tell us a little about yourself,” said one. “You’re only 25 and you wrote this incredible story. Where did it come from?”

Despite the gushing, I felt like they were seconds away from finding me out. Any minute now, they’d notice that I was a normal and kind of strange person, not national-prize-winning material, and they would realize their mistake.

“I don’t know, it was just an idea I had, I guess,” I rambled. “But! I’ve been accepted into an MFA program! I start in the fall. In New York.” See! I’m a real writer!

Instead of the breathless approval I’d eexected, there was silence. 

“Oh,” one said, disappointed. 

“Well…don’t let them change you,” the other said.

I didn’t understand then what they were telling me: that if you don’t learn to trust yourself (it was obvious to anyone in earshot that I didn’t), you will be eaten alive. 

That if you don’t guard your own vision, you might forget what makes it precious. 

If you sacrifice yourself for external approval, you will lose touch with yourself.

That’s exactly what happened. I spent the next few years changing my writing to make it “better,” cleaner, more publishable, more workshop-friendly.

I wrote many flat, lifeless, pointless things.

And then I stopped writing completely. 

I had lost something precious: the natural instinct of writing what I loved to write. I’d closed the channel that allowed something mysterious and wild to come to me unbidden.

Then one day, I happened upon a story I’d written in 2010, before I ever tried to publish or impress people. It was quirky and genre-less and totally un-workshoppable. It was like a toddler—wobbly, adorable, guileless, unaware of grown-up things like insincerity and judgment. And I realized: I used to love writing. I used to love what I wrote. 

I used to trust myself.

She needs privacy and safety and freedom to play.

When we stop trusting ourselves the way children do, the way people who understand the value of their own ideas do, she stays far, far away. If it’s not safe for our own weirdness and chance-taking and shakiness, it’s not safe for her, either.

If we abandon ourselves, the muse abandons us, too.

*

So how can we cultivate self-trust in writing? 

We can write in ways that lean into and explore our own instincts and style and voice. We can follow our own personal white rabbits, not other people’s advice. We can listen to our intuition. 

We can write for ourselves, our own satisfaction and discovery, not other people’s–yes, even as we’re marketing ourselves and trying to get published and generate buzzy LinkedIn posts.

Just as importantly, we need to cultivate self-trust in life, too, so that our subconscious/inner child knows it’s safe to come out. (Maybe the inner child and the muse aren’t that different.) 

We need to have hard conversations. We need to be willing to disappoint people and be awkward. We need to know who we are and protect that strange and original voice as if our creativity depends on it. Because it does.

Working with a good writing coach can help you practice these things and draw out your own inner brilliance. Schedule a call with me today to see how.