Sam,
As I sit across from you this afternoon, your eyes glued to the screen and your feverish fingers clacking intently, I can't help but wonder what will become of the novel you've started.
About an hour ago, you asked me if I thought you could "make it" as a writer. I was making protein balls (the ones your remind me aren't a replacement for cookies, no matter how much I insist they are), and you were drawing a labrador. It was a quiet moment, and as your pencil grazed the dog's ear, you stopped, looked up, and asked me.
And I played ignorant, pretending I didn't quite understand the question. "Make it?"
"Yes, like, could I get a book deal if I write a book? Do you think I could make it and get paid to write?"
I looked at my gooey hands, caked with protein powder and flax seed and almond butter. This was one of those moments I knew I needed to get right.
I could have told you, "Yes, honey. Of course you could! You can do anything you set your mind to." And then you'd feel all warm and cozy and go back to your sketching.
I could have told you, "You know, publishing a book is hard in this cold, cruel world. Print is on its way out. You're much better suited for a life in finance, don't you think?" And you would have shrugged and filed that little tidbit away for a therapy session fifteen years from now.
I could have found a middle-of-the-road approach and said, "Wow. I love what you write. You could certainly get started and see where it goes! I believe you could write a really great novel." And all those things would have been true, and are true, but it didn't sit well with me to pivot on this question.
Because in this moment, my concern was not your self-esteem or your future career or your sense of achievement or potential. At this moment, aside from trying to think of all the ways I could screw this up and say the wrong thing, I couldn't help but fixate on what was going on beneath your question.
So, instead, I answered your question with a question. "What would you like to write about?" You put down your pencil, picked up the laptop next to you and opened up a blank doc. After a while, you responded. "I don't know."
"Well," I continued, "Great writers write. Not because they want to "make it," whatever that really even means, but because they can't help but write. You want to write? Do it. You want to make something? Make it."
And you began. So, right now, you're starting your first attempt - may be your only attempt - at a novel. It's a Dungeons and Dragons fan fic, because that's what you're in to.
And here's what we'll talk about if you choose to continue: If you want to do something, like write or draw or dance or make stuff, just start. Start doing the thing. And if people appreciate it, cool. And if they don't, that's just fine, too. In Elizabeth Gilbert's Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear, she talks about letting your art just be your art. She says, "never delude yourself into believing that you require someone else's blessing (or even their comprehension) in order to make your own creative work."
Sam, you turn 12 next week. The stirrings of needing to be liked and accepted and validated by people outside this house have begun, and while most of me knows that's just the way these things go, there is a part of me that mourns your growing need to have someone else tell you that what you make and what you do - that who you are - is good.
Make your art. Draw your dogs or dragons or whatever else you're going to want to draw. Write your novel. Play your piano. Just go ahead and do the things you want to do.
The critics will come, eventually. They'll see what you've made and judge it. And it will feel like they're deciding whether or not the thing you made should even exist.
And yes, in so many ways, they'll get to choose whether or not you "make it." And that pressure can crush every ounce of your want to create anything ever again.
So, when you make something, and when you put it out there, and when someone gives you any kind of feedback, whether it's glittering or scathing, please remember: You didn't do it for them. You didn't start it for them or finish it for them or toil in the middle of it for them. You did it because you couldn't not do it. Because it had to be made.
So you made it.
