How the Sneaky Need for Approval Silences Original Writing (And What to Do About It)

Deep in the suburbs north of Atlanta, in a nice house on a cul-de-sac, I sat next to a young man in his dad’s office above the garage. Edward’s parents had asked me to talk with him about his struggle with writing. He seemed nervous but willing.

As a new college student, Edward enthused about his computer programming courses, but couldn’t get a handle on the classes with writing assignments. That seemed to surprise everyone, since Edward was an avid reader who spoke with confidence and a rich vocabulary.

“What happens when you try to write?” I asked. I sensed Edward’s embarrassment and noticed the jitter of his bouncing knee.

Edward thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I don’t know.” He rolled his chair up to the desk to show me the assignment on his college’s website.

Immediately after graduating from high school he’d gone into a fast-track online college program and wanted to get his programming degree as soon as possible. His fierce focus on his goal showed in his willingness to get up early every morning and spend his days motoring through the classes. I wondered if, despite Edward’s smarts, he viewed his struggle with writing as a failure.

“Would you be willing to slow down a little and check inside to report on what your thought process is when you try to do this assignment?” Maybe if we shifted into analysis, his programmer’s brain would lend a hand.

“Maybe. I can try.” He sat back in the chair and closed his eyes.

“Take your time.” I stilled so I wouldn’t disturb his process.

Edward’s knee jiggled a minute longer then stopped. As his breathing slowed, some of the strain on his face faded. “It’s like... I mean, I don’t know what they want, not really.”

“What who wants?”

“You know. The teachers. I mean the professors. I’ll read a writing assignment, but when I try to do it, I end up going back to review the assignment, trying to... I don’t know. It just seems so vague.”

“Do you feel like you’re focused on how to get a good grade?”

“Yeah. Of course.” He gave a little laugh. “If I get good grades in all my classes, I’ll be able to get a really good job.”

“What about your parents? Do they fit into the process somewhere?”

“They’re paying for my college, so, yeah. I don’t want to disappoint them.”

I recognized Edward’s stress. The tension of writing for others, especially if we’re hyperfocused on performance goals, can short-circuit our connection with the creative place writing springs from. I continued to ask Edward questions, to encourage him to query himself.

“Let’s keep going with your process,” I said. “Your dad told me you wrote a draft. As you wrote it, what were you thinking about yourself? Can you tune in to that?”

Another shrug. Edward folded his arms and stared at the ceiling. “It was like... I couldn’t find a way in. I don’t even really know what I mean by that. I had to guess. I don’t like guessing. I just want to know what I have to do to get a good grade.”

“Forget about words,” I said. “Let’s talk about ideas. This is you and me here in a room with no one else, in total confidentiality. I’m interested in your opinion on this topic.” I pointed to the computer. “Your personal opinion.”

A roll of his chair took Edward closer to reread the assignment, as if viewing it for the first time. “Well, if I didn’t have to try to figure out what I’m supposed to do, I would think...”

That “would” told me Edward was circling himself, cautious. He hadn’t said, “I think.” He’d said “I would think,” with an implication of “if I had an opinion of my own about this.”

I focused on remaining silent and fully present, respectful of Edward’s attempt to search for meaning of his own.

He found it, bit by bit. He tried out one hesitant opinion, lapsed into study of the screen again, then offered another thought, with a quick glance to me.

I nodded for him to go on. “What else?”

After those first few careful thoughts, a fun factor seemed to click in and the perceptive, buoyant personality I’d experienced Edward to be on previous occasions overtook him. He found his stride and started waving his hands. When his speed-talking wound down, he said, “Huh.”

“Were any of those ideas ones you came up with because you thought your professor or your parents might want you to have them?” I asked.

“No.” He smiled at me, his cheeks pink with the energy of relief. Then his shoulders sagged. “Darn it. I wish we’d recorded that. I mean, I still have to write this thing.”

“You know all those books you’ve read? All the books you’ve told me about that you love?”

Edward nodded.

“Every one of them started as someone’s thought or feeling, as a personal opinion in the privacy of the author’s mind and body. That’s all writing is, really—someone’s recorded opinion. The key is to get quiet enough to find your own opinion.”

“Oh.” Edward stared off into space again. “Okay.” He put his fingers on the computer keyboard. “I’m just going to...”

I snuck out and went downstairs to find his parents.

So much of the pressure we put on ourselves about writing arises from the wrestling match between external expectations and our own personal opinions.

The voices we take on over the course of our lives as we navigate family and society, as we manage trauma and emotional survival, can rear up when we set out to connect with originality. This is fine. This makes total sense. We need a tribe to survive, and so the internal voice of the tribe, acquired over a lifetime, can equate to safety on a visceral level. Stepping off that path into the undergrowth to express something original can feel life-threatening to the mind, which then puts on the brakes.

Whatever urges you to write, dare to heed the call. Whatever internal struggle you wrestle with, know that the courage you need is only to let go of what is not your own opinion. This is the opposite of heavy lifting, of effortful labor. Every rejection of a should lightens your load and clears your vision.

Cock your head to the side and listen. Look around. Ask yourself, Is this mine? Is this really me? If not, move on. You don’t need to know where the shoulds came from. Just set them aside and keep going toward what’s all yours.

Like Edward, you can be nervous, but be willing. You’ll know when you find yourself. That place rings with animation and power.

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Grace Kerina is a writing coach with more than twenty years of experience helping authors find their true voices. To receive the free PDF “50 Creative Writing Prompts for Intuitive Writers,” sign up for her mailing list here. She also writes novels as Alice Archer.