comment from a facebook post of another woman writer.
This is helpful and timely. I’m having some sabbatical weeks and finally allowing myself to let my own creativity be important. Today i have been considering my distrust of the editing process to my raw/truth/heart art – whether writing or drawing. i tend to just create by pulling it out the ether and on to the page. like a child does, mixed with some sort of feral beast that demands raw truth. And that comes out good, and stirs emotions, and I like that. it also comes out in spurts that I love one day and then panic about the next, that i can only create when i feel that passion driving expression from me, that once it’s out it is done, fixed, and i may or may not be able to make more. so…yes..i noticed that i am distrustful of the word “editor” – why?! I connect it to the idea that editing will limit distort or take away from the truth. but what im working out is that my negative associations with editing come from having a pretty severe and whiney critic, i destroy and dismantle myself all the time, and the only way to keep my art safe is to create in that raw one-off way, to get a drip feed of support from others to nurture it. Because it runs as a direct line from my emotions to my words my art feels susceptible to all kinds of emotional whimsy and i feel like its not sustainable or can only come so far. But what if the inner or outer editor was something that could nuture and deepen the vision? Maybe i can foster something new in myself. Some of your writing has shocked me by being very close to my own, hidden words in secret journals, I am happy to see it and I understand where it comes from. I have a pressing sense that these are truths that need to be expressed, that our raw-art is important, and I think developing more skills to frame and support it is good. I have the beginnings of new perspective growing in me, but its requiring me to re-think and re-imagine my whole sense of being in the world
From Austrlian author Kate Holden…..”And, at the end of the day, I find it humbling even to witness and experience my own ability to write. Not always write very well, but – well, to be able to write at all, in a world with still high numbers of people who can’t, or poorly (somewhere between 50 and 70 per cent of Australians have sub-sufficient literacy) and to be able to write fluently and to have written adequately enough to be published. There are the operatic rapturous moments when the muse kisses you deeply and the magical words fly from the ends of your fingers, when you’re surfing towards the bottom of each page, when a day’s work is like flying… and there is the simple, much humbler appreciation of being able to communicate and express in a form which is not transient in the way conversation is, or ephemeral in the mind’s eye images, impressions and memories that we share with ourselves, or mumbled and incomplete the way speech is. Writing fixes things, it allows articulacy and elegance where we might be shy in person; it gives us the time, as we cogitate each word, sip the tea, stare out the window, pat the dog, to evolve our thinking carefully; it permits the retraction of a mis-thought and the replacement by a better one. Writing lets our thoughts – formed in the very material goo of our fleshly brains – live on for millennia (just ask Seneca, who took his own life but still scolds from two thousand years ago). And writing is an act of grace, isn’t it? I don’t mean to end on a gushy, sentimental note. I’m not talking about eye surgery on the poor. But writing is grace, and humility is the nicest way to receive it.”