Opinion writing is nothing short of an exercise in public embarrassment. Even on the occasion when I manage to write something I don’t hate immediately, if I give it enough time, I’m usually quite ashamed to have written something so misinformed and amateurish.
I’m by no means alone in this phenomenon. A quick Google of “hate everything you write” brings up dozens of Reddit threads and other pages dedicated to the topic.
As an editor, I can always find room for improvement in just about any piece simply in terms of grammar, sentence structure, and so on.
But adding an ever-evolving body of facts, subjective knowledge, and life experiences into the equation is the perfect formula for writers’ insatiability. It reminds me of the We Were Promised Jetpacks lyrics:
“If I was a writer,
I’d write my opinions
Just to see
How wrong I could be”
And wrong I have been so many, many times…
I’m OK By Myself
With an opinion piece, there’s no way to truly quantify whether or not your work is good. Sure, you may gain recognition by being published by others, but the opinion of others does not equate to truth.
In fact, generally, if you have something truly valuable to say, you stand alone in your opinion. This independence of thought should be the ultimate goal of anyone trying to “write well”.
The same is true of any creative pursuit. To stand on the frontier of the next level of creative genius is to stand alone–to “disturb the peace”. At the same time, however, you could find yourself standing alone next to shit.
So, the question is: “How do we know when we’re on the precipice of genius, and how do we know when we’re simply foolish?”
Unfortunately, we can’t.
In order to reach greatness, or live aspects of life not yet lived, you must risk being an idiot.
The Idiot’s Permission
Now, this–being vulnerable–is incredibly difficult. I get anxious just thinking about posting something on social media. In college, I felt as if my heart would beat out of my chest at the mere contemplation of raising my hand in class.
Of course, my weapon of choice in addressing these uncomfortable feelings is alcohol.
(Keep in mind that using alcohol as a tool to combat social anxiety, as I’ve done for many years at this point, is a very bad idea, and something I need to work on!)
Last weekend I went to Time, a Philly jazz club, and was the only one dancing. I may have looked ridiculous, but I had fun.
The thing about vulnerability is that it’s often contagious.
When I stayed in LA for a month in January, I went to Club Underground, one of the best dance parties I’ve ever been to, every Friday. Another guy who was also there every week was always one of the first people in line. When we got inside, he immediately started dancing like a madman. He slid across the entire venue, often weaving in and out of everyone else. Amazingly, he wasn’t even drinking, just truly enjoying himself.
This, for me, was inspirational. It helped me to feel more comfortable, because I knew whatever I did, I wouldn’t look as crazy as him. He was the “idiot” who gave me permission to be one too.
After the first night there, I was always one of the first on the dance floor. In fact, somebody there later told me they thought I was hired as a dancer by the venue to get other people into the vibe.
Writing, Dancing, & Vulnerability
So, what does dancing like an idiot have to do with opinion writing? Well, opinion writing may be an act of public embarrassment, but it’s also a practice in vulnerability–the two go hand-in-hand.
Even if my writing is shit (and it very well may be), at least I may inspire someone more talented to read my work and say, “This guy sucks, I can do way better than him,” and actually put in the work to make something great.
Of course, if my writing is great, maybe I’ll inspire real change–or, at the very least, sell out and make a fuckton of money… 😉
Overall, vulnerability breeds vulnerability. And if we can all learn to be more vulnerable with one another, we may be able to develop deeper relationships and live more authentic lives.
