My worst moment of writing insecurity

I'm inspired by a recent episode of the (great) Hidden Brain podcast, where they talk about the power (and pitfalls) of sharing insecurities. Some of my best friends (see pic above) freely share their insecurities, and I do too, creating an easy space where we can just be ourselves. Similarly, I tend to avoid people who present curated versions of themselves, ie. TMI's opposite TLI (too little information). Kinda why I quit Instagram, ha.

Anyway, the episode reminded me about my worst moment of writing insecurity.

It was 2024, Trump just got elected, and all the worst men were being openly cruel and awful. Now, for a long time prior I'd had this idea to base a novel off of the classic movie Big, except as a toxic masculinity dark fairy tale retelling where a small young boy loses all innocence after waking up as an adult in a world where men are rewarded for their worst impulses. A world where there's no space for "good" boys to thrive. It was meant as a novel for adults.

A hundred pages and months later, I had an unreadable mess. Dark, creepy, borderline body horror. The early review (from Nicki, always my first reader) said things like What is this, middle-grade Euphoria? and Were you secretly traumatized as a child and never told me about it?

Disheartened but sobered, I realized I had to abandon the project.

Just kidding! I forged ahead like a big dummy and revised it.

More months and dozens of pages later, I wound up with yet another unreadable mess. Still dark and horrific, but with less sex I guess? Nicki did her best to read it, failed, and suggested I give it to my beloved agent Jodi to look at.

Jodi began skimming after about page ten.

We had a heart to heart. She said the book was beautifully written, but ugly. There was enough ugliness out there (see Trump, Elon, etc.) available right at our fingertips. Why add more? Also, she felt I was trying to fix the world by crafting an elaborate mirror. It wasn't my job to fix the world. It was my job to tell a good story that came from the heart, not from anger. God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to six seven skibidi. It was a good, tough conversation that made me rework the whole project into something very different, way better, and much more personally meaningful. (Updates to come.)

So, happy ending. Yay!

But sometimes, while washing dishes or picking up my child's stinky socks for the millionth goddamn time, I get that funny frisson of embarrassment for having "wasted" over a year polishing a turd, just to wind up writing something very different. I should've saved time by outlining. I should've shown earlier versions sooner. I should've more quickly gotten over my anger and disappointment in the men who rule our world. (But how?) Shoulda woulda coulda.

I know life is a long winding road and all that. But still. Embarrassing. Woof. Maybe sharing will make it less embarrassing. (Probably not.)

Got any thoughts about insecurity? Cringiest moments? Let's chat.