Why I love writing and you hate it

I’ve been writing since I was a kid.

And ever since I was little, writing has been about 3 things.

Catharsis.

Reframing.

And telling better stories.

I first started writing in a journal. Writing helped me make sense of what was going on. I got to live the event three times – first when it happened, then as I wrote about it, and again when I read what I had written.

It was my way of feeling less alone.

It was the way I became okay, no matter what.

Like the time back in high school, when one of the popular boys asked me out.

Blonde and rich, he wore V-neck sweaters and shirts with collars. (This used to impress me.)

One day, he walked up to me during homeroom.

He was smooth. Confident.

And he had really straight teeth.

“You are a very special girl,” he told me.

“Will you go to the dance with me?”

You should know that, when it came to dating, I was ragingly shy and hopelessly awkward. I was really into writing plays, shooting home videos and staging fashion shows in my back yard.

I liked directing my friends in variety shows in my spare time.

What I’m trying to say was that I the kind of girl who went to dances and did a goofy dance out in the hallway to make the kids (who didn’t get asked to dance) laugh.

Not the sort of girl who got asked to the dance.

My stomach flipped. My palms moistened. I felt like I might throw up.

“Yes,” I whispered, barely audible.

But the next day, one of my friends told me it was all a joke. A dare. The boy was actually going to the dance with one of my friends.

Ha ha.

I went home and wrote.

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I know, this might seem weird to you. But it is how I process. You know how fish have gills to breathe? Writing is my gills.

In my writing, I raged about being the butt of someone else’s joke. I launched a very early feminist critique of American high schools. I seriously explored the idea that I may very well be alone for the rest of my life.

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As I got older, I kept writing.

In Seattle, I had two jobs. I was a public school teacher in the morning, and cleaned houses in the afternoons.

(Side bar: turns out, the going rate for engaging minds of at risk kids with undiagnosed learning disabilities just out of juvie or coming off the streets was the same as cleaning linoleum floors — $20 an hour).

Unlike many of run-of-the-mill cleaning ladies, I wrote a blog about my misadventures: “The Diary of a Mad Housekeeper.”

I wrote stories about teaching public school and cleaning rich people’s houses.

I wrote stories about how scrubbing toilets is actually an underappreciated form of meditation.

I wrote stories about how I sometimes took naps on my client’s floors when they weren’t home because I was tired. And then I rationalized why it was okay, if slightly creepy.

I wrote stories to keep myself from falling into despair. I took what could have been a demeaning part of my life, and made it mean something else.

####

Only this time, I’d told some of my friends and family what I was writing.

I had more readers than just me.

I still got the benefits.

But I wasn’t the ONLY one.

My writing was meaningful to other people.

Like my friend Annie, one of my lifelong cheerleaders. Who emailed me to say “hey, liked the piece on the Zen of Scrubbing Toilets. You may have just convinced me to tackle the nasty grout in the shower this weekend.”

Interesting, I thought. I’m just telling myself these stories about my life so that I don’t stop believing that my life is meant for more than polishing stainless steel appliances. But this is about more than just me. Huh.

####

Fast forward, five years later. I started my copywriting business.

I got on the phone with my clients and asked them to tell me their stories.

And then, I’d write them into a website. Or a sales page. Or a brochure.

It didn’t take long before I realized how many business owners HATE writing.

For me, writing has always been a gift and a practice of self-love and self-protection.

But for them, it was punishment!

It took me awhile to understand what was going on.

How could they hate something I loved so much?

As I looked into it, I started seeing why it was punishment.

They weren’t being themselves.

They weren’t letting the catharsis happen.

They weren’t telling better stories.

They were writing what they thought they SHOULD be doing.

No wonder they (you?) hate it.

They think they have to be some slick actor who always says clever things and is kind of an asshole.

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One of my clients asked for help with her headline on her homepage today.

We talked about it. I asked her a few questions to help her get clearer about who she’s talking to and what they really want.

And then she said something wonderful.

She said, “I just realized I don’t need my headlines to be clever. I just need them to be clear on the thing they really want.”

Amen and hallelujah!

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As I write this, I run a multi-six figure business.

I’m still writing.

I’m still showing up, as I am, warts and all.

I write about writing and business. But I recently sent a newsletter, where in my personal note, I wrote about doing my dishes my candlelight.

I write these things because I got tired of hearing a voice inside my head bitch at my sink every night about the pots and pans.

I write these things because it makes me feel less alone.

And now, I write these things in the hopes that it will help other people feel a little less alone, a little more encouraged.

I also do this to sell my programs and make a living.

So if you hate writing, I wonder: what if you could tell yourself a better story – one that not only fed and emboldened you… but resonated with the people you are meant to serve?

Author and educator Parker Palmer says this:

“Our deepest calling is to grow into our own authentic self-hood, whether or not it conforms to some image of who we ought to be. As we do so, we will not only find the joy that every human being seeks–we will also find our path of authentic service in the world.”

To which I add: that path can be found through our writing.

Mighty thanks to Katie Brady flickr photostream for the goldfish.