An Apology
The second-person POV is a difficult one to make work. It invites comparisons and empathy where perhaps there are--or should be--none. It aims to create complicity. Keep that in mind.
Probably most of you can skip this, because I assume--thank God--that most of you are not "you." But if you see yourself in "you" at all, this is an apology.
-----
Let us assume, dear reader, that you are a fanfic writer. Let us also assume that you are either A) A very new writer or B) At your heart, lacking self-confidence in your work.
Well. I believe that covers all of the writers.
You post your first stories and wait for feedback nervously. The community is very nice, but one commenter in particular stands out. She loves your work. It's the best thing she's seen in perhaps forever. She seems so certain of herself, so confident and sure, that her glowing review of your work makes the work seem...better.
You and she add each other to your flists. She's a good writer, really good, better than you are, and talks often about how hard she works to make her stories truly art, not mere mindless entertainment. At some point you start emailing each other directly. She writes witty, involving emails that are fun to read, encouraging you to talk about your work that she loves so much. You feel like you and she understand the pairing or fandom or life more than other people. You're special because of her attention. You talk a lot about your work, your hopes and fears and ideas for it, what makes you uneasy about it. She never talks much about hers, but you tell youself that's because she's not self-centered. She's a good friend and is helping you become a better writer.
Maybe her amazing certainty about how the world is and should be alarms you a little. Generally that's a warning sign. But perhaps you're also allured by the feeling of being one of the special ones who really "gets it." You're a member of an elite group, and it makes you feel good to know your bright, sophisticated, self-confident friend thinks you're worth that. Admittedly, she is sometimes very abrasive to other people. But never to you.
Your friend encourages you to "stretch yourself." Do you feel best writing short stories and drabbles? You should try longer stories. Do you really enjoy writing "fluff," and write it pretty well? That's fine for getting lots of comments, but it's not exactly Shakespeare, is it? Are you skilled at smut? That's great, but eventually the novelty will pall, won't it?
You started writing fanfic because it made you happy. But now you wonder if maybe you should be trying to be a "better writer." You start to be kind of unsure you're any good at this. At this point, maybe your friend is beta-ing for you, maybe she's just giving you feedback. She warns you that sometimes she's blunt with her opinions, and that some people just can't take that. You tell her that she's one of the people whose opinions really matter, and you trust her to give you good advice, and you'll always listen to her with an open heart.
Something happens some time after that.
You have no idea what, but your friend's feedback, which used to be glowing and extensive, dwindles to a terse, "Good job again." You've become dependent on her good opinion to keep your insecurity at bay, so you try harder and harder to please her. Longer stories, angst, a more literary style? Whatever it takes to get your friend's esteem back, you'll try it.
But none of it seems to work.
Writing becomes painful, difficult, or impossible. Every sentence you write sends you into an agony of second-guessing--your characters are too OOC, your tone is too light, your style is too plain. Soon you can hardly write at all, and of course what you do manage to write feels labored and clunky. It doesn't make you happy, and it certainly doesn't make your friend happy. You still get a good amount of feedback--maybe other people don't notice how poor your writing is becoming, how un-joyous it feels to write. Or maybe they're just being polite.
At some point, consciously or unconsciously, the thought starts to cross your mind that the only thing that might make her happy is if you stop writing altogether. It would certainly be less painful for you.
At this point, if you have a healthy dose of self-confidence, you laugh and shake it off, though probably not easily.
If you have weak self-confidence but someone in your life who can give you the deep and extensive support you need, maybe you suffer for a long time, you spend a lot of nights crying about how you're a bad writer, but you struggle on.
If you have neither incredible self-confidence nor support, it may well destroy you as a writer.
No matter which of these happens, you feel completely alone. No one ever argues against your friend's public pronouncements on what is right and what is good, so she must know what she's talking about, right? You're the only person who feels broken and crushed, the only one who feels oddly betrayed. But why should you feel betrayed when she was just giving you her honest opinion? Now you're a bad writer and a bad friend as well. It's horribly depressing.
And then you see it happen to someone else.
You can't quite believe it, but from a distance you watch someone else seem to go through the same cycle. It's hard to tell from the outside. Maybe you're just imagining it?
You write another friend and say "Am I crazy? Am I imagining this?"
She writes back with, "Oh God, I thought I was the only one who was feeling so alone."
It's possible, now, that you're both imagining it together. Still, having someone else who felt alone talking to you makes you start to see just how harsh and painful your friend's public behavior is. Still, you keep your mouth shut because you don't want to make a scene, you can't bear to risk having people think less of you. Maybe things will just calm down?
But eventually--much as you don't want to--you start to realize what you've allowed to happen to yourself, what you've allowed to happen to others, what you're allowing to happen to others right now. What you've stood by and let happen to the community every time your friend posted something making sweeping pronouncements about reality, about the pairing, about the fandom. You've been complicit in what comes down to bullying, pure and simple.
What do you do next?
I suppose for starters you apologize--for letting your insecurity and ego blind you to a personality that you should know perfectly well is dangerous. For falling for the oldest trick in the book--"We're special, we're different, don't listen to the herd, trust me instead." For keeping silent out of fear of confrontation and letting the cycle repeat itself. You want to apologize because people were there for you when you hit hard times, and suddenly you're not sure you were there for other people when they might have needed you.
So...I'm sorry. For a bunch of things.
I'm sorry if you felt discouraged about your writing and I didn't encourage you, because we all deserve encouragement. We write for joy and for friendship, and if I've missed a chance to give any of you either, if I have failed at the friending, I'm so sorry. I'm not talking about feedback, precisely, because none of us can feedback as much or as often as we'd like. We don't owe people feedback. But we do owe people our respect, our support, our esteem...we owe each other something I suppose I'll have to call our love.
I'm sorry now for rambling and for...well, for talking at all, actually. Terribly sorry, believe me. I'm not good with the disagreeing thing. I'm very good at the wanting-everybody-to-like-me thing. But I also believe that keeping quiet and keeping private also keeps us feeling alone when--maybe--we're not.
We can talk about it if you like. But we don't have to. Just...don't feel alone, okay?
Probably most of you can skip this, because I assume--thank God--that most of you are not "you." But if you see yourself in "you" at all, this is an apology.
-----
Let us assume, dear reader, that you are a fanfic writer. Let us also assume that you are either A) A very new writer or B) At your heart, lacking self-confidence in your work.
Well. I believe that covers all of the writers.
You post your first stories and wait for feedback nervously. The community is very nice, but one commenter in particular stands out. She loves your work. It's the best thing she's seen in perhaps forever. She seems so certain of herself, so confident and sure, that her glowing review of your work makes the work seem...better.
You and she add each other to your flists. She's a good writer, really good, better than you are, and talks often about how hard she works to make her stories truly art, not mere mindless entertainment. At some point you start emailing each other directly. She writes witty, involving emails that are fun to read, encouraging you to talk about your work that she loves so much. You feel like you and she understand the pairing or fandom or life more than other people. You're special because of her attention. You talk a lot about your work, your hopes and fears and ideas for it, what makes you uneasy about it. She never talks much about hers, but you tell youself that's because she's not self-centered. She's a good friend and is helping you become a better writer.
Maybe her amazing certainty about how the world is and should be alarms you a little. Generally that's a warning sign. But perhaps you're also allured by the feeling of being one of the special ones who really "gets it." You're a member of an elite group, and it makes you feel good to know your bright, sophisticated, self-confident friend thinks you're worth that. Admittedly, she is sometimes very abrasive to other people. But never to you.
Your friend encourages you to "stretch yourself." Do you feel best writing short stories and drabbles? You should try longer stories. Do you really enjoy writing "fluff," and write it pretty well? That's fine for getting lots of comments, but it's not exactly Shakespeare, is it? Are you skilled at smut? That's great, but eventually the novelty will pall, won't it?
You started writing fanfic because it made you happy. But now you wonder if maybe you should be trying to be a "better writer." You start to be kind of unsure you're any good at this. At this point, maybe your friend is beta-ing for you, maybe she's just giving you feedback. She warns you that sometimes she's blunt with her opinions, and that some people just can't take that. You tell her that she's one of the people whose opinions really matter, and you trust her to give you good advice, and you'll always listen to her with an open heart.
Something happens some time after that.
You have no idea what, but your friend's feedback, which used to be glowing and extensive, dwindles to a terse, "Good job again." You've become dependent on her good opinion to keep your insecurity at bay, so you try harder and harder to please her. Longer stories, angst, a more literary style? Whatever it takes to get your friend's esteem back, you'll try it.
But none of it seems to work.
Writing becomes painful, difficult, or impossible. Every sentence you write sends you into an agony of second-guessing--your characters are too OOC, your tone is too light, your style is too plain. Soon you can hardly write at all, and of course what you do manage to write feels labored and clunky. It doesn't make you happy, and it certainly doesn't make your friend happy. You still get a good amount of feedback--maybe other people don't notice how poor your writing is becoming, how un-joyous it feels to write. Or maybe they're just being polite.
At some point, consciously or unconsciously, the thought starts to cross your mind that the only thing that might make her happy is if you stop writing altogether. It would certainly be less painful for you.
At this point, if you have a healthy dose of self-confidence, you laugh and shake it off, though probably not easily.
If you have weak self-confidence but someone in your life who can give you the deep and extensive support you need, maybe you suffer for a long time, you spend a lot of nights crying about how you're a bad writer, but you struggle on.
If you have neither incredible self-confidence nor support, it may well destroy you as a writer.
No matter which of these happens, you feel completely alone. No one ever argues against your friend's public pronouncements on what is right and what is good, so she must know what she's talking about, right? You're the only person who feels broken and crushed, the only one who feels oddly betrayed. But why should you feel betrayed when she was just giving you her honest opinion? Now you're a bad writer and a bad friend as well. It's horribly depressing.
And then you see it happen to someone else.
You can't quite believe it, but from a distance you watch someone else seem to go through the same cycle. It's hard to tell from the outside. Maybe you're just imagining it?
You write another friend and say "Am I crazy? Am I imagining this?"
She writes back with, "Oh God, I thought I was the only one who was feeling so alone."
It's possible, now, that you're both imagining it together. Still, having someone else who felt alone talking to you makes you start to see just how harsh and painful your friend's public behavior is. Still, you keep your mouth shut because you don't want to make a scene, you can't bear to risk having people think less of you. Maybe things will just calm down?
But eventually--much as you don't want to--you start to realize what you've allowed to happen to yourself, what you've allowed to happen to others, what you're allowing to happen to others right now. What you've stood by and let happen to the community every time your friend posted something making sweeping pronouncements about reality, about the pairing, about the fandom. You've been complicit in what comes down to bullying, pure and simple.
What do you do next?
I suppose for starters you apologize--for letting your insecurity and ego blind you to a personality that you should know perfectly well is dangerous. For falling for the oldest trick in the book--"We're special, we're different, don't listen to the herd, trust me instead." For keeping silent out of fear of confrontation and letting the cycle repeat itself. You want to apologize because people were there for you when you hit hard times, and suddenly you're not sure you were there for other people when they might have needed you.
So...I'm sorry. For a bunch of things.
I'm sorry if you felt discouraged about your writing and I didn't encourage you, because we all deserve encouragement. We write for joy and for friendship, and if I've missed a chance to give any of you either, if I have failed at the friending, I'm so sorry. I'm not talking about feedback, precisely, because none of us can feedback as much or as often as we'd like. We don't owe people feedback. But we do owe people our respect, our support, our esteem...we owe each other something I suppose I'll have to call our love.
I'm sorry now for rambling and for...well, for talking at all, actually. Terribly sorry, believe me. I'm not good with the disagreeing thing. I'm very good at the wanting-everybody-to-like-me thing. But I also believe that keeping quiet and keeping private also keeps us feeling alone when--maybe--we're not.
We can talk about it if you like. But we don't have to. Just...don't feel alone, okay?