When I was younger — late teens, early twenties — I was an active member of a fandom forum, solely in the fanfiction section. I was also doing a Writing/Editing degree at the time, but looking back, it was the forum that taught me more about writing than the degree ever did. (The degree was useful for editing, which wasn’t even its major component, but all I remember about the writing aspect is the forced-class-critique. No, I still don’t go for writing groups.)
This might have been a bad combination. Writing degrees tend to be less about writing and more about critical analysis thereof (Kris Rusch writes about this sometimes on her blog, though unfortunately I don’t have a link to the specific article). Everyone on the forum meant well and were, on the whole, kind if not gentle, but when I look back mostly I think about how mean I was. I was the nitpicky person who saw everything. I wasn’t the only one — there were a fair few of us who were good at that, and friends — but I had the degree to justify it, and I sincerely thought I was doing the right thing.
Many years later I wince. Reviewing on a fanfiction forum often came down to showing off and being right. I was trying to help, yes — in the best way I could — the way I’d been taught — but I’m not all that proud of my behaviour there.
That was about fifteen years ago.
This week I had occasion to go to an old email address and discovered someone had, in July, sent me a private message on that forum.
It was someone who’d read my stories back then.
Sometime who had joined the forum specifically to comment on them.
Someone who kindled a love of writing, if not a passion — enough to be an important part of their lives.
Someone who, in joining forum culture, had found lifelong friends, an interest in coding, and a career.
Someone who credited me with all of that. Me, and my writing, and an unfinished piece of fanwork.
Thank you, that someone said; and, I’ve been trying to find you for years to tell you this; and, I hope you’ll find this.
I don’t feel worthy, said I, plaintively, to my friends.
Isn’t it interesting, mused my coauthor, how you used the same word we use these days specifically in a monetary sense.
Well.
Generally speaking, I like the word ‘worth’. I might have to do a word spotlight on it sometime. But that pulled me up short, because oh how right: because, in some perverse sense, the gratitude hurt for exactly the reason that I don’t currently have a real income, and haven’t managed yet to achieve it with writing. As a failing, this is a patently false one, since it takes years of consistent effort to get there and I’m still in the beginning of my publishing journey.
In an era when worth is monetary, when time well-spent involves hours on end, when the door must be answered when opportunities knock —
I’m not lacking in self-confidence. Anyone who knows me will tell you that. That doesn’t mean something deeply ingrained can’t still rear its ugly head, when the narrative has been repeated often enough.
And gratitude, earnestly given, can cut a person raw. When all the world is deriding, honest praise is like sunlight after a dark room. You want it and it’s good, but for the first few minutes, it hurts.
It’s difficult, being seen. More difficult still, when I look back at that time and regret my behaviour, however valuable the period was for me in developing my writing skills.
This person isn’t the first one to say that I’ve changed their life with my writing — but they might just be the first whose life I changed. Back when I barely knew what I was doing; back well before I was developing a solid voice. Back when I thought criticism meant improvement, and a detailed, dot-pointed list of errors showed that I was helping. Somehow, despite all that, I still managed to touch another person just that deeply.
Monetarily, writing isn’t doing much for me yet. It’s my intention that it will, just enough to keep itself going; but that’s an outcome I can’t and won’t expect to occur quickly, just as the result of persistence and the stubbornness not to give it up.
But in terms of anything, everything else —
Writing’s worth is immeasurable, and if this is how I put more into the world, then damn straight I’m not going to stop.