What if it was safe to feel proud?

The side wall at the Studio with a wooden table and chair, a coat rack, a bookshelf to the right, and some images and a mirror hanging on the wall.

Sometimes writing workshops feel more like high-stakes contests in the art of humility.

I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard someone preface a piece by saying something like:

“This really didn’t go anywhere…”
“I don’t even think this makes sense…”
“I’m sorry…”

Eyes down-cast, maybe a little scrap of paper rolling between their thumb and forefinger. We all lean in, waiting for their words. We’re shocked by how polished they seem, after that intro.

I let the preamble happen because I can tell that the writer needs it. I don’t believe in blocking them. But I do wonder what else might be possible. That’s what this newsletter is about.

Let me tell you a story from the other side of that doubt. 

I had this one class participant named Terry. This was 7 or 8 years ago, when Firefly was in the back room of my tiny apartment. It was the first day of class so we made some lists (fires, teachers, sunsets) and then wrote from one of the list items. Terry read first.

I remember her piece, right down to the words and the tone of her voice, partly because of how powerful and affecting the writing was, but also because of how powerful TERRY was. She finished reading and then threw her page down on the table.

“You guys I just wrote that!” Her joy and wonder rippled through the room, bright and contagious. We dove into that pride with her. It was so easy to. It set the tone for the whole night, and the whole eight weeks. That class was explosive.

I’ve been trying to conjure a little Terry lately. It’s so easy to make humility my base note, giving away praise and never collecting it. Why does that feel so natural? Ethical, even? And oh my goodness, if everyone is doing the same, imagine all the pride that never gets collected, whirling around like litter in the breeze? What a waste.

What Terry knew (and knows) is that pride is food for our work. 

It can light us up and guide us towards our most important material. It’s not the same as ego, which turns our head from our mistakes, pride has room for mistakes, for learning, for growth. It can be the most beautiful fuel.

One day recently in my fall Keep Your Pen Moving class I was getting the group warmed up using play dough. “Make a monster.” “Make your mood.” The creativity was flowing and then right as were transitioning into a write, someone slipped out to use the washroom. I didn’t want to move into a write without her so I threw in one more play dough instruction off the top of my head — “make your writing superpower.”

The groans in that moment. But then they just did it, and we went around the table, each participant gingerly holding up a floppy orange cup that represents how they are always opening wider in their work, or a finger-printed green heart that represents how much heart they put into their stories — it was enough to fuel my whole winter. I forced them to give shape to their pride, and even though they resisted at first, it was right there in their hands.

I want to offer that to you today — let’s be good at what we’re good at. 

Let’s know and carry what those things are. We are all so scared to be seen as arrogant that we hold our healthy pride at bay. What if you knew it was safe to feel proud? What might happen in that light?

Here’s to the secret light of your own genius, and to making some time to let it light you up.

In it with you,