By Sandra Hager Eliason

My father's favorite expression was “How could you be so dumb?” followed closely by “I'm ashamed of you.”

Which explains exactly why I stopped pitching my memoir after six rejections. The echoes of my father’s voice reverberated:

I'm not ready.

It must need more work.

How could I think I was good enough to pitch this? Someone else needs to review it, to tell me how to do it “right.”

For my father, the opposite of dumb was smart. I spent my life proving I was smart, by living up to expectations. The final proof was my choice of a career in medicine, a hierarchical system, where one must prove one’s worth by assuming a prescribed role and following strict guidelines. Medicine told me what I had to do, the correct treatment, correct way to make a diagnosis, the right way to interpret tests and facts and values. I just had to do it. And each time I did, I exhibited how smart I was.

When I retired, I had stories I wanted to tell, and turned to writing. After all, my undergraduate English degree had to be worth something. The next logical step was to find experts to tell me how to do it “right”—give me assignments that could be graded “A,” bestow the “evidence-based” formula for my writing to be the best, publishable, praise-worthy. In this way, I would succeed at being a writer, much as I had with medicine.

I took courses, went to conferences, enrolled in writing intensives, joined writers’ groups. But the prescription for the “exact right way” eluded me—no one said precisely what made writing publishable. Instead, I got edits, suggestions, comments, advice on understanding the publishing business—how to approach it, what to know—no exact algorithm for success.

When I “finished” my memoir, I hired four different developmental editors, not trusting that I had it right each time I revised. I wanted one of them to say, “This is it! You’ve got it,” not realizing only I would know when it was my best effort, and only I could call it “done.”

I had groups review my memoir query—several times. I paid for help to refine my pitch. And paid again to have my query reviewed, my proposal edited, my chapter summaries refined. What was I missing; and who would tell me it was enough?

Perhaps, I thought, if I just took one more class, (or one more), I would finally learn the magic thing, know I was there.

Earlier this year, I signed up for a writing intensive aboard the Queen Mary 2, time with four expert instructors over seven days. “They certainly will be able to give me the answer!” I told myself. The itinerary promised to teach me how to set goals, create powerful characters and dialogue, incorporate strategies for revision. I could learn “aboutness,” explore the Invisible Magnetic River, hear how to create the best queries, sharpen my voice, all while eating and dancing on a majestic cruise ship. I had to do it: I would finally get everything I needed.

And it was fabulous. And I learned. With the guidance of the four instructors, I determined that my next steps were to begin a newsletter, restart submitting my memoir, and polish some new essays we had workshopped.

But when I returned to my ship’s cabin, surrounded by only myself, the little voice in my head took over.

What makes you think you can do this?

How can you be so dumb as to put yourself out there?

And if I failed, there was my father’s voice again: I’m ashamed of you?”

Combating that voice took several steps. I had to first trust the assessment of those who were teaching me. Yes, I had done the work and knew the process. Yes, I had focused on bringing my own voice to my writing. Yes, I had successfully written a query, created a website, revised first pages.

Secondly, I had to stop looking for that magic formula. All the teachers, reviewers, and editors over the years had given me guidance, but no one could give me the exact steps in the precise order. The next steps had to come from my work, from what I had learned and what I had accomplished. I only needed the confidence to follow through, and to believe that I could stand up to the little voice and say, “I’m not listening; I can do this. My efforts are good enough. My goals are (gulp) worth it.”

The more I am involved in the writing community, the more I realize that I’m not the only one with these little voices playing in my head. That nasty little voice seems to creep in around the edges of determination and creativity for many.

We need to find ways to move beyond the voices. Maybe it’s the next course, or group, retreat, or degree.

Or, maybe, it’s as simple as reminding the little voices that we really are good enough. Because we are. All of us.
____

Sandra Hager Eliason is a retired Family Physician now writing full-time. Her essay “Rough Ride,” originally published in West Trade Review, was reprinted in Best American Essays 2023, chosen by Vivian Gornick. Eliason is querying her memoir, Heal Me: Becoming a Doctor for all the Wrong Reasons (And Finding Myself Anyway). She is also a social media newbie, but follow her on Instagram @sheliasonmd.