Avoiding Bitterness

"Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a writer rejected."

I'm sure we've all encountered them at some time or another--those embittered, I-hate-you-because-I've-never-succeeded writers (or ex-writers) whose dreams have dwindled to shriveled longings that manifest as ugliness, pettiness, grumpiness, or out-and-out vitriol.  Sometimes it's subtle; sometimes it's glaring.  But it all comes from the same root of bitterness that any of us can too well imagine.

It doesn't happen overnight.  In fact, it probably starts like everyone else's journey--those first, painful stings of rejection.  The tears we hope nobody sees.  The vague pangs of jealousy as another, and another, and yet another writing colleague lands a book deal.

That's all pretty normal.  It's part of the journey.  We can learn to grow past it--to acknowledge our emotions and move forward.  (In fact, if we don't give ourselves grace during the times we're fighting with negativity, we're going to make ourselves more miserable.)

But when the bitterness takes a firm hold, something terrible happens to a writer's heart--it hardens.  Hopefulness gives way to doubt and scorn.  Words of congratulations to friends are clipped, forced, or withheld.  Attitudes of kindness and camaraderie devolve into contention and criticism.

Those among us who tend to turn anger outward will leave a path of destruction in our wake--harsh critiques, unfair reviews, petty gossip, angry diatribes against the publishing industry.  And those among us who tend to turn anger inward will wither into cold, silent shells of the creative people they used to be.

Anger, of course, is what happens when we don't deal with our sorrow.  Anger is stronger, more powerful.  Makes us feel in control.  It's when the sorrow of disappointment and rejection morphs into anger that we get into trouble.  And it's when we stay in the anger that something inside us begins to change.

It's not a pretty change.

There is so much kindness and humility and support in this community that the word "bitterness" isn't something that floats to the top when I think about you.  (Yes, I think about you.  Is that weird?)  But it is something we all need to guard against.

Because it's like a snake--silent, smooth, undulating its way in and refusing to crawl out again.

What's a writer to do?

• Be honest with yourself about your feelings.  Allow yourself to mourn, to cry, to throw bricks out your bedroom window, to quit for a day.  
• Give yourself grace.  If you catch yourself feeling jealous of a friend or angry at an agent's cold form response, acknowledge it without bashing yourself.
• Forgive.  Yourself, the harsh critter, the recalcitrant agent, the egotistical editor.  Don't let the sun set while you're still angry about something.  Forgiveness diffuses the anger that wants to turn into long-term bitterness.
• Stop paying attention to the small stuff--annoying tweets, naysayers, bestselling authors who make grammatical errors--and focus on YOUR WORK and YOUR DREAMS.
• Keep giving.  Your time, your ideas, your support, your kindness, your advice, your heart.  You do have something to offer, and focusing on what you have to give will keep you from crawling into a corner and lamenting about what you don't have.

It's a wonderful journey, but like any adventure, it's got pitfalls and snags and wrong turns along the way.  I believe we can hold each other accountable and stay on the right path without losing our way in the forest of bitterness.  

Do you agree?

One final, naked moment:  I need you.  This community helps keep me grounded and accountable.  You give me something to pour into when I feel too empty to pour (and yet, somehow, it happens anyway).  You make me smile, you remind me what's important, and you give intense satisfaction every time you meet a goal or have a revelation or take a baby step forward.

Collectively, there is no way this community will ever make room for bitterness--or for anything else destructive.  And that, my dear colleagues, is amazing and inspiring.

Thank you, as always, for who you are and for what you give.  Your contribution is immeasurable.