On a Break--Part I

I have been a writer since I was 11.

In kindergarten, I entered "The Enormous Tulip" in the Illinois Young Author Contest. The story won a prize for my area. In late elementary school, inspired by a love of words and my teachers' praise, I started entering local and national contests. I lost more than I won, of course, but I was published in Cricket, Creative Kids, ByLine, and Scholastic Scope. I won money, blue ribbons, and an electric typewriter. I waited anxiously for the mail to see whether it might contain acceptances or rejections. I considered myself a disciplined, professional writer.

In college, my winning streak continued. One of my college professors said that when she found out I was going to be in her class, she thought, "Tess Thompson? She's the one who wins everything." I won several Penn State writing contests. I wrote an opinion column for the student paper and co-edited a literary magazine. I won $1000 and publication in Seventeen magazine's fiction contest. At least in part because of my writing ability, my senior year in college, I won a Rhodes Scholarship to spend two years studying at Oxford.

What I'm saying is that I was told often I was a good writer. And, from a very early age, writing was linked to awards and publication.

But the anxiety started early, too. Before we moved last summer, I found my high school journal. When I was in ninth grade, I wrote that I was worried: I had no ideas for stories, and nothing seemed as good as what I used to write. On one hand, the entry struck me as funny--what kind of a 14-year-old worries about having peaked as a writer? On the other hand, the words made me sad, because I recognized in them the kind of thinking that still plagues me. The anxious thought: What if my best writing is behind me?

At some point, writing became more than writing. It became a way to win approval. It became a shot at immortality. It became a way to show I wasn't ordinary. It became a way to show that I was a good person.

Which isn't to say I didn't enjoy writing. I can remember being in middle school and scribbling in the evenings until my cheeks were flushed with inspiration. At Oxford, I liked to sit at my desk and look out the window while I thought about what to write next. Any artist can tell you that once you get past all the procrastination and self-criticism and sit down to work, you can feel a peace and satisfaction you can't get from anything else.

I wrote two novels, one in grad school and one after. I tried to find a literary agent for each, but, despite some encouraging responses, did not find one. A major goal of mine had been to publish a novel in my twenties, and I had failed. I started a new novel, but when I turned 30, I found myself blocked. When I sat down to write, I felt desperate; every day, I hoped I would be able to write something to justify my life up until that point. The words couldn't bear the weight, and they refused to come.

The truth is, early success can be bad preparation for life as a writer. As a career, novel-writing requires long periods of solitude, with very little affirmation or validation. There is no guarantee of success. As one of the novelists I heard on a recent panel explained, "In the beginning, getting published is like getting kicked in the teeth over and over again, and getting up each time."

Sometimes I wish I'd gone to law school, or gotten my PhD in something or other, just so I could have some external validation. Intellectually, I know that many novelists write several books before they successfully publish one. Intellectually, I know that the fact that Emily Dickinson published only 4 poems in her lifetime doesn't mean she was a bad writer. But part of me believes I should have met my definition of success by now, and the fact that I haven't means that something has gone wrong.

In May, I realized that creative writing was driving me mad. The rejections were too much. Everything I wrote seemed thin and hopeless. I had to ask myself: Why? Why do something that is only bringing me pain?

And so I decided to take a break. In mid-June, I stopped writing fiction and poetry. I felt terrified to give it up, but I needed to figure out who I was without writing.




Coming tomorrow: What I've learned from my break thus far. (Bonus points to anyone who noted the irony that I'm writing this to try to figure out who I am without writing.)