I was nine years old when I fell in love with writing. It all started when my third-grade teacher shared the news that the Young Authors Contest – the premier literary competition for our town’s elementary schools – was open for submissions. Though it was no “Design an Ad” Contest, which only the crème de le crème of the creative won, I found myself hurrying home to start working on a story that began blossoming in my mind as soon as my teacher made her announcement. Equipped with a pencil, paper, and disjointed cursive, I brought my first character to life: Lorenzo Venchenzo.
Lorenzo, an Italian detective, was introduced to readers nonchalantly sipping a cappuccino – the fanciest coffee drink I knew at the time which I found almost impossible to spell correctly – at a café near the Colosseum on the streets of Rome. To me, he was the epitome of intrigue and largely inspired by my obsession with 007 video games – though I’ll admit his gadgets were lacking in comparison. But Lorenzo didn’t need those fancy contraptions. He’d tracked down those international jewel thieves through cleverness alone and was waiting at that café for the perfect moment to make his move to recover the stolen gems.
When I completed writing this admittedly ridiculous and action-packed tale and looked down at those five pages of Lorenzo’s adventures, something in me clicked. Even after more than twenty years, I remember the surge of electricity that ran through me, raising the hairs on my arms and sending chills down my spine; it was a pulse of purpose I’d never felt before. And thus, a writer was born.
Excitingly, I did win third place in that year’s contest (cue humblebrag) and, as a kid who didn’t necessarily excel at much, I felt as if my heart would burst from pride. I didn’t care that I was bested by two others – I loved my story, and that enthusiasm, in my opinion, is the driving force behind any good piece of writing.
Writing has been a lifelong companion of mine ever since, though it has taken on various forms throughout the years. After Lorenzo, I continued writing short, creative stories that made me smile, often based on fantastically implausible adventures and magic. When I entered high school, I joined the school newspaper and developed a passion for journalism, which I followed to bachelors and masters degrees and a career as an essayist, columnist, and digital communications strategist.
At nine years old, I was lucky enough to find a craft that makes me happy, one that provides both personal satisfaction and countless career opportunities. I’d like to think that young author would be proud of what writing that simple story has led to, and, in a perfect world, this is where his happy tale would end. However, as it holds true with any creative calling, revealing your thoughts and vulnerabilities through your work can expose a truly dark and ugly side of the world.
I’m not talking about constructive criticism or learning through failure – those are essential parts of growth for any passion, and I’ve been lucky to have honest, thoughtful, and tough teachers who’ve helped me reach realms of competence far beyond what I could’ve accomplished alone.
I’m referring to the people slinging criticism with the sole goal of causing pain, the ones who will reach out in response to an article and say, “I hope you die!” or “Your literally tha worst writer in the world..” One of course grows thick skin over the years – it’s part of the job – but no armor is impenetrable. It’s like the scales of the mighty Smaug, which essentially rendered him indestructible save for one small, scaleless patch of skin over his heart – with one well-placed arrow, he was defeated.
While I of course do not endorse the wanton destruction that worm wreaked upon Middle Earth, I find the comparison oddly captivating. Writing is empowering, freeing and enthralling, and at times it can make you feel invincible. But with one sharp shot, all those positives can come tumbling down and leave you alone among a cacophony of harsh, unwarranted criticism.
After shifting my writing career toward supporting the LGBTQ+ community for the past few years, I’ve become accustomed to being the punching back for many a critic. I sincerely don’t mind when someone has a true question or criticism regarding what I write – I certainly have my own style and opinions that are not everyone’s cup of tea – but I’d be lying if I said the random and continuous criticism regarding my competence and identity, often coming from uninformed individuals who, at best, scanned my content, has not taken a toll on me.
I’ve never been one to hold back in my writing for fear of offending someone, but I soon found myself skewing toward over explanation more consistently to get ahead of any possible trolls – a fruitless endeavor if there ever was one. I’ve never considered myself to be “the best” when it comes to writing, or anything really, but repeatedly being told you’re the worst – even from those you don’t know or respect – can worm its way into your brain and make you doubt yourself and your abilities. It’s like a debilitating poison slowly sweeping through your body – it doesn’t kill you, but ultimately paralyzes you and keeps you from doing what you love the most.
I’m sorry to say that I let this poison overwhelm me for a time; my armor crumbled, and I was washed away by the negativity of it all, drowning in a sea of insecurity that prevented me from writing anything other than what my job required. For a time, I wallowed in their beliefs – that I could be counted among the worst writers in the world – and took several months off from writing as a result.
Then one night while lying in bed, memories of writing Lorenzo’s story unbiddenly flooded my head, as if that dastardly detective knew I needed a good shake-up. It made me remember how entranced I was working to find the perfect words to capture Lorenzo’s adventures and the pride I felt at producing something original, wholly representative of my creativity. What I didn’t remember is feeling the need to win first place or the need to prove anything to anyone with that story. It was for me, and me alone.
Basically, nine-year-old me did not give a damn about what anyone thought of his writing, so why should thirty-one-year-old me be any different?
To some, I have no doubt I will irrevocably be branded the worst writer in the world; or at least the worst writer they know. They may have a point – I play it fast and loose with grammar, employing semi-colons, em-dashes, and run on sentences like I’ve got a monthly quota to hit. I’m prone to tangents and flowery language. And don’t even get me started on AP style. If those shortcomings – among many others – make me the worst, I can live with that.
But what I can’t live with is keeping this lifelong passion chained up due to fear. Writing brings me joy, helps me process my emotions and the world around me, and is one of the few instances in my life where I allow myself to slow down and think. Where I can spend 20 minutes debating whether “sparkling” or “glittering” would be the best way to describe the stars in the night sky. Where I can connect with other people. Where I can push myself to think critically about my worldview and challenge myself to improve it.
Regardless of what I’m writing, to this day the hairs on my arms rise and chills run down my spine when I’ve produced something I am proud of – to let that go to embrace the safety of silence would be the height of foolishness.
Plus, there is a silver lining to being the worst writer in the world – I have nowhere to go but up.