The terror of sharing
“Could be! No. No good. Bad!”
That was how one of my undergrad film professors gave feedback on our short films. Picture it: a basement screening room, you’re alongside two dozen classmates. Your film plays through the projector in front of everyone, and, in the front row, the professor shouts his one-word opinion of your work. Getting a “Good!” was rare. Most films, mine included, suffered barrages of “not-good”s or “bad”s. Students left class blinking away tears.
It was awful. On the mornings before I shared work, I could barely stomach a bowl of Cheerios. When it was time for the lecture, I’d pace in front of the screening room entrance, wondering if I’d be sick. It was such an acute, precise emotion—a feeling of being exposed, of self-loathing and wanting to be better, of wishing you didn’t care what others said. It had the power to make you feel like a kid again: weepy and timid and embarrassed.
I hadn’t felt that feeling for nearly a decade. Sure, I had felt moments of embarrassment over the years. Nerves over presentations given. Bolts of awkwardness around strangers. Certainly plenty of anxiety too. But nothing quite resembled the feeling of being back in that basement classroom—until I started sharing portions of my book for feedback.
There are bigger things to worry about, I know. Trust me, I’ve said that to myself. Told myself: it’s just a book! But still the feeling still snaked back. I think it’s a certain type of nervousness, made all the stronger because it’s born from something you’ve made. A book, a film, a song. Photographs, monologues, ceramic vases. And I think the nerves flare differently, they feel stronger, because it’s not just about you sharing the work—it’s what’s inside the work. The personal, whether conscious or unconscious, that does and should slip inside it. Even within my book, set over a half a millennium ago, there certainly lurks the personal—in the ambitions and ugly thoughts of my characters, in their peculiar habits.
To share something so personal is uncomfortable for another reason: because you care. It hits differently than, say, the disappointment of having a suggestion rejected in the office. Creative work is something that you’ve spent days, months, years working at, letting something real come out of you unfiltered then working (and working and working) to make it coherent.
But here’s the thing: that professor who shouted “Bad!” at people’s work? I don’t care that he didn’t like my films now. (Frankly, they weren’t good!) And those awful nerves? They were always at their worst before class, waiting for whatever feedback might come. Even if the work got panned, the feeling soon ebbed. It’s the anticipation of it that was the most painful part.
And what am I feeling right now? That very uncomfortable anticipation. Tens of thousands of words have been rewritten, and my current set of revisions is nearing its endpoint. If you’ll allow me a metaphor: the house has been built. It can be renovated, repairs can be made, but if the foundation is bad—that’s a difficult problem to recover from. Just look at the bell-tower in Pisa. (Which, yes, makes an appearance in my book.)
But feedback is crucial. And it’s time for it. All I can do is hope that person sitting in the front row shouts “Good!”
What I’m reading: I unfortunately didn’t like To Paradise, at all. But Anthony Doerr’s Cloud Cuckoo Land is great so far!
What I’m watching: Not much really! If you have recommendations, let me know in the comments. I’m off to see Cyrano once I hit ‘send’ on this letter.