The artist's doubt

I got in after midnight last night from my trip to Turks and Caicos' (TCI) Provo island. Of course, there are stories to tell and insights to share. I used some of the time at the airport to begin and outline a few entries.

This morning I opened an email from a fellow energy healer who has just finished the final chapter of her book. She is appropriately proud of it. I know that feeling. Unfortunately though, that feeling, for me anyway, comes only after blood, sweat and tears from wrestling with the angels. I am constantly on guard against self doubt.

One of the best parts of this trip was that I actually managed to get quite a lot done on the story. The generations are now complete. It is a chronicle of nine generations of women healers. The first a renowned, respected African Priestess delivered into the slave trade by a rival as a consequence of selfishness, using her talent and exceptional abilities for her own gain at the expense of another.

I always knew this was part of my main characters story, but hadn't been able to flesh it out until this week. Luzca, born in 1991 is ninth generation behind the powerful ancestor. I've always known that the book on Alice Dunbar Nelson was historical fiction--she really existed.

I'm starting to appreciate the extent to which I'll also be incorporating historical accuracy and perspective into this story. It too is turning out to be historical fiction. Lots of work ahead, which I look forward to doing.

The best part about what happened this past week was the way the story took its first unassisted breaths. Additional characters added themselves, their names, major events, how they died, the routes they took, the details on who took them in and on and on. It was more like collaborating with my right brain. My left brain sat typing while my right brain just dictated an already complete story. It really is a heady and wonderful experience that I hope to one day explore in print.

My role becomes much clearer after this experience. It is so clear to me that the story is already done. It exists in some other dimension and has been looking for a friendly human who'll lend themselves and help it grow into being here in this world. Much like music needs a willing musician or lyricist to welcome it through the dimensional doorway into our world, so too do stories and poems and so on. Seeing it this way helps control some of the overwhelming sense of inadequacy that I try to keep at bay.

Which brings me to one of the last experiences I had on TCI. I had a favorite spot at the hotel’s restaurant. It seemed odd that it was almost always available. My spot was at the restaurant’s edge, nearest the sea. It had the most direct view to the color of turquoise they must use to decorate heaven. I’d noticed another woman on several occasions who took her breakfast and lunch at the same times I did. She sat at the next best spot, at the restaurant’s edge but facing the opposite direction.

On this last morning when I went downstairs there she was. “Sorry, I know I took your spot. I thought you’d already eaten.” Now if this was my oldest buddy, he’d be quite certain that she’d wanted to get that spot for days after I made it look so attractive by the way I dawdled and stared out over the sea from my perch. He’d be even more certain that either she indeed tried to time it so that she wouldn’t have to compete with me for the spot or else hoped and prayed that by taking that spot, I’d do what I’d done any of the couple times it wasn’t free and sit in the next space over, hoping to engage me in a little conversation. I indeed sat adjacent. She indeed struck up a conversation.


It was morning, coffee time, and I’m not particularly conversational early in the day. But having opened with, “I took your spot,” how could I resist her? Turns out she owns a consulting business assisting companies who have large populations of downsized or laid off workers. She helps them relocate to newer, hopefully better jobs. When she asked the standard, “What do you do for a living?” I gave her the response I’ve grown more accustomed to over the past several weeks: “I make my money as a teacher, but my passion is writing.” I added my standard caveat that though I'm passionate about it, though I'm dedicated to it, I still question having the requisite skills to make my stories attractive to someone other than myself.

She immediately giggled. One of her gigs included working with a publishing firm that went through a major downsizing. She was assisting a project manager who’d worked with a series of best-selling authors in bringing their writing to market and on to success. (She gave me authors names, but best to respect their privacy.) My breakfast mate set about convincing the publishing executive that she was not only highly marketable but likely to find an even better job than the one she being forced to leave. I didn't ask what kind of "better"--more money, increased responsibility or perhaps greater fulfillment. As the publishing executive began to truly hear what my new friend was saying to her, she suddenly saw a parallel.

This publishing executive then relayed that every author she'd ever worked with thought their work sucked. “Sucked” wasn’t the word she used, but it conveys her point. She then said something about it being expected of artist types. That many artists underestimate their gifts until it is validated externally.

That helped. The universe at work. It was an absolute blessing that on my last morning in paradise, she'd share that tidbit. I rarely consider myself an artist. Seeing my life through the lens of artist fits better than when I insist on trying to view it through conventional lenses.

I recall being surprised when someone walked into my home to perform a service and within just a few minutes asked, “So, you’re an artist?” Since I hadn't owned it about myself yet, I thought she might be highly observant, maybe even psychic. I might as well praised her talent for recognizing that there is cola found in certain red cans with squiggly lines, and fancily arranged letters of C-O-K-E. Saying so might also mean, "next time try a professional decorator." The artist's doubt.

In the context of “artist type” my constant battles against thinking I can’t possibly write well enough to create an entire novel makes sense. It isn't every artist's issue, but enough of us have it.

Or maybe it's just a defense mechanism in anticipation of necessary constructive criticism. Clearly, the doubt doesn't keep me from continuing to pursue it. It just inspires a tendency to whine about it as I go.