My Worst Writing Fear: Ridicule
by
Shannon Heuston
I
wrote my first book at the age of six, carefully printing the words in an
orange spiral notebook. It was about a
group of naughty children misbehaving in school. I illustrated it with blue ballpoint
pen. Deciding I was finished, I scrawled
The End, then abandoned my masterpiece.
Days later, my sister and her
friends discovered it.
Fists clenched, I listened to her
giggle to my mother about how they had taken turns reading it. This first audience did not please me. They thought my book was a joke, and it
wasn’t supposed to be funny.
I was furious, embarrassed, and hurt. Despite the cavalier way I’d tossed my
creation aside, I cared about it. Hearing it mocked stung. I never forgot how that felt.
I didn’t stop writing, but I never
lost my fear of sharing it. The memory
of that derisive laughter echoes in my head whenever I hit the publish button.
Writing is invasive, an excavation
of the soul. When finished, it becomes
your contribution, your purpose for living.
It’s you. Criticism is an unwelcome
intrusion.
Writing my first novel, The
Playground entailed
reliving the past. Based on my childhood
bullying experiences and its aftermath, I felt brutal honesty was required to
increase awareness about the ongoing trauma suffered by victims. This meant reopening old wounds andrisking
the same kind of rejection I experienced as a child, a frightening prospect.
Publishing my novel was both
terrifying and exhilarating. It wasn’t
something I could take back or undo.
What if I regretted it? Sending
it out into the world was like jumping off a cliff.
The initial reaction was
overwhelmingly positive. My novel was a hand reaching out to others who were
also suffering, to let them know they are not alone and what happened was
wrong.
Sometimes I receive notes from
readers telling me how deeply my book touched them. They always arrive in
the nick of time, just when I’ve begun to question my vocation, to reassure me
that all the hard work is worth it.
Then there’s the criticism.
It’s inevitable, and that’s why we
writers fear it. Any book that inspires
great passion will eventually be hated by someone.
The negative reviews hurt, but I try
to take it in stride. I may shed a tear
or two, but my book continues to sell.
That’s the important thing. I
concentrate on the good and try to dismiss the bad. It’s silly to focus on a
few negative reviews when they are outnumbered by the positives ones. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
Criticism is the first sign of
success. Rather than signaling failure,
it’s a sign you’ve arrived. People are
not motivated to write a negative review unless you’ve awakened their
emotions. All great artists receive
their share of criticism. Occasional
negative feedback is the price youpay for doing what you love and sharing it
with the world.
I’ve learned that it’s okay to fear
criticism, it’s okay to hate it, and it’s even okay to cry over it. Butdon’t let it shake your confidence. Contrary to popular belief, successful people
sufferthe most rejection.Instead of giving up, they use it as motivation to
work harder.
Writing is a brutal profession. Rejection is guaranteed. But the ability to share your message with the
world, reach people in their loneliness, and have an impact on their lives is
worth it. Criticism is the buzzing of a mosquito in comparison. Celebrate
it as a sign of success.
~~~~~~~
Author Bio
Shannon T. Heuston was born in Boston, MA but grew up in Westchester County, New York, where she still resides. She first professed her desire to become a writer at the age of eight, when she tried to write a mystery series titled "The Sally Bridgman Mysteries" styled after Nancy Drew. Her first book had Sally Bridgeman and the gang traveling to France and then right away going out to peer in people's windows and spy on them, because, how else would you find yourself a mystery? She would like to believe her writing has grown more sophisticated since then.
~~~~~~~
Blurb
This novel is for anyone
who has ever suffered bullying. Rachel Parsons was horrifically bullied
as a child. Thirty years later the memories of the abuse she suffered
still haunts her. What happened on the playground? And why can't
she forget it? A book that explores the long term effects of childhood
victimization.
Check out the reviews for Shannon Heuston's novel, The Playground, on Amazon. You can also find Shannon on GoodReads and on Facebook.
~~~~~~~
Excerpt
I had outgrown my old
sneakers, so my mother found a pair of white boy’s Nikes with a baby blue
swoosh on the sides from Odd Lot, a store that sold brand name merchandise at
steeply discounted prices. They cost three dollars, an enormous bargain
for sneakers even back in 1985. Happy that my parents were happy, I
innocently wore those sneakers the next day, not realizing that life as I knew
it was about to end because of this fashion misstep.
I
had no idea I had just committed social suicide until Alicia, the gorgeous girl
I had been trying vainly to impress, wrinkled her nose at my blinding white
shoes. “Are those from Odd Lot?” she asked.
Instinctively, I knew
to deny it from her tone.
“No,” I said, forcing
a smile, “I’ve had them a long time. I just haven’t worn them.”
I was hoping I could
trick her into thinking I had bought them before they’d been marked down and
condemned to the discount bins.
Darren, the boy who
had asked me if my refrigerator broke because I ate all the food, materialized
like a dog scenting blood. Bending down with his hands on his knees to
get a closer look, he chortled, “You’re a liar! Those sneakers are
so from Odd Lot! I saw them in the three dollar bin when I went
shopping there on Saturday with my mom.”
My cheeks burning, I
drew my feet in beneath my desk, wishing I could pull them up inside me like a
turtle withdrawing into its shell.
“Definitely from Odd
Lot,” was Alicia’s final verdict, presented with a toss of her perfectly
coiffed head. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in sneakers from Odd
Lot.” She swiveled her ankles to show off the delicate gold colored
sandals adorning her feet. “These came from Bloomingdales.”
La-di-da, I had no
idea what that meant anyway. I knew nothing of brand names or stores.
If you said Banana Republic to me, I thought you were talking about a
country whose main expert was bananas.
“Are you poor?” Alicia
asked me bluntly. “Only poor people buy their sneakers at Odd Lot.”
“No,”
I breathed, horrified.
I quickly scanned
everyone else’s feet, for the first time observing something absolutely
alarming. My sneakers were completely wrong. Almost every other kid in my
class wore the same sneakers, white low topped Reeboks with a jaunty British
flag stitched into the sides and the brand name stamped on the back in blue
block letters. Even Jason, who was studying a book at his desk with way
too much concentration not to be aware of what was going on, was wearing
Reeboks.
I was an alien
studying human life.
The feeling that had
swept over me the first day of school, that everyone else was speaking a
language I didn’t understand, was back. Everyone was in on the joke
together. And I was all alone.
