Writing Woes

What is it about writing that makes it so personal even when the content itself is not remotely personal?

I understand the feelings of ownership and protectiveness when writing something that involves some kind of intimate insight, experience or feeling, like poetry or a story, or the authorship of anything that took a lot of time, resources and creative effort. But what about writing something as impersonal and mundane as committee minutes, an audit report or policies and procedures?

I like to think of myself as an open-minded person, who welcomes, nay embraces, constructive criticism, and uses it to grow and improve. I do not like to think of myself as the kind of person who becomes protective when challenged, and automatically (i.e., unthinkingly) becomes defensive upon any hint of others correcting my writing.

Notice I said this is the way I would like to think of myself, rather than this is the way I actually am. Just when I am buying into the delusion that I am sincerely open to critical suggestions, something happens to remind me that I have yet to reach that pinnacle of self-actualization.

One example is a script I wrote for a church cantata. Some kind of narration was needed to tie the seven or eight chosen songs together and I was asked to do it. I spent some time writing a script to make the flow of songs cohesive and meaningful. While I did generate effort to write this script, it was not like this was my life’s work and that I sweat blood and poured all my artistic juices into crafting it. I probably wrote two or three hurried drafts before handing it over.

In most cases, I realize that once a script is “handed over,” the writer ceases to have even a modicum of control over it. Various people can change your words, your stage directions and your meaning without your consent, much less consulting you. I thought I was okay with that. I thought I would be fine even if there were massive changes to the script. I was fooling myself. When I actually saw the performance, I mentally noted every change. Some characters were lumped together; lines were deleted, modified or added; blocking, stage direction and other nuances were altered. I realized that for the most part, I did not like these changes.

Then, I realized I liked it even less when one of the people in charge of the cantata mentioned offhandedly to me, “I hope you don’t mind, but the Director made some changes to improve the flow of the skit.”

“Oh no,” I replied gritting my mental teeth, “as long as it makes a better performance.” What a big faker I am. I desperately wanted to mean those words as I felt them leave my mouth. Alas! Alack! I hope wishing to be a better person counts for something.

More recently, I was the lead writer for a Report at work. My co-workers contributed, but I did a significant amount of the writing. Today my boss wants one of my co-workers to “tighten up the language;” and the way he made it sound (and from his expression), I do not think these will be minute changes. I said that was fine, but I preferred the changes be made on the side (as comments) rather than to just change the text, so I would know what parts did not work for them. I may be paranoid, but from their furtive glances to one another, I think they want to do some major over-hauling.

The professional in me wants to be fine with all this, but rather I feel annoyed, irritated, somewhat insulted, and frankly, petty for feeling this way. Despite my best efforts to feel and be otherwise, I am taking this personally.

But why? Why am I taking this so personally? Maybe because this was the third draft and I really felt it was ready to go (albeit with some minor tweaking). I mean, if they wanted some major changes, then why did they not bring this up earlier? Or did they mention it and I failed to appropriately address it in the report?

Perhaps the root of this comes from my core belief that I am a good writer. I am self-aware enough to realize that I am a bad, even horrible speller, as well as a poor grammartarian and punctuationalist (I know they are not words, but I am taking some creative license here), but despite these handicaps, still a good writer. And when I say good writer, I know I am not great, but good, as in better than over half the population (which would be “average.”)

Now, an uncharitable (e.g., discriminating) reader may think at this point, “nothing I have read thus far convinces me that this person is as good a writer as she thinks she is.” Ahhh, therein lies the problem. Maybe that is where I have gone wrong. I have an inflated view of my abilities.

Well, some time has passed and the Report for work was finalized and distributed. The overhaul was as minor as an overhaul can be. I mean, by its very nature, an overhaul means to change much. All in all, it was not as bad as I had envisioned. To be honest, it still chafes a bit, though. Like thick thighs encased in corduroy. It chafes.