Four things I’ve learned from writing in community

I think myself a loner. I'm used to the story that I am misunderstood and aloof, hard to get close to, off-putting, etc. And while most social situations are deeply stressful for me and nothing is ever one thing, I do love a lot about writing with other writers.

A key for me has been finding low-stakes sharing opportunities and spaces that are centered on writing over production. I love hearing other people's writing and I like a chance to build up some of my public speaking muscles, but I also need time to write. I've been hosting co-writes and attending workshops and making time for writing with others for a few months now (huge, grateful shoutout to Tristan Richards and her Unfold community that I stumbled into in April for setting me on a path I was avoiding). Here are some things I've learned so far:

1. No one is a perfect writer. By which I mean, no one is efficient and prolific and brilliant on every page. I’ve been lucky to share space with writers I admire, whose words consistently leave me stunned and shaken, and I can confirm that even they struggle to write sometimes. They feel out of it; they can’t settle into the zone; they self-censor and come to the end with emptied files. There’s simply no perfect way to do it and the gunk is unavoidable.
2. I love celebrating other writers. And it’s surprisingly uplifting to share space with writers doing “better” than I am. When I’m trying to write all on my own, other people’s output starts to look effortless. And I can’t silence the resentful voice in the back of my mind, the one bent on comparing me to others and always finding me wanting. But inside the shared space of a workshop or co-write, all I want to do is celebrate us. I want to have my face melted when someone shares a poem that they weren’t feeling 100% about only to find the whole room in shambles. I want to applaud everyone who rates their session a 2 out of 5 but still showed up to the page and for themselves. I can appreciate and respect the work we’re all putting in, instead of feeling ashamed of my own.
3. Someone else does that weird thing. Whether it’s the way you label (or don’t label) your drafts, your chaotic practice of always and only writing in the Notes app, how you walk around with your laptop cradled in the crook of your arm so you can work through a sticky phrase, or your love of a very specific scent—you’re not alone. Someone else does it, or gets it, or does something they consider even weirder, or is going to try it because they trust you and your results.
4. It doesn’t have to be brutal. I know I’m not the only one who has internalized the idea that we have to measure worth by exertion—if it doesn’t leave you depleted, if you’re not anguished and exhausted, did you even write? Answer: Yeah. You did. I’m not saying you won’t ever create art that tortures you to some extent. It’s still hard, this work. But it can be joyful, and fun, and it can flow when you’re inspired and held by a community. Those words count, too.

I'm hosting co-writes at least once a week, usually twice, and you're always welcome to check one out and see what the space does for you. There's a session tomorrow, Thursday 8/10 at 6 pm ET, and another on Sunday 8/13 at 12 pm ET. Sign up here and let me know if you have any questions. I hope I get to write with you soon <3