By Allison Stein
“Whose life am I living?” Too often, I have wrestled with these words. The year I published my first chapbook, the question became a reverberation in my mind—as constant as a heartbeat. An introverted dreamer, I struggled with opening up to others, yet I wished I could share the part of my soul I so closely guarded. How could I show outward confidence when I was fighting an intrinsic battle? How could I embrace my true interests when they defiantly exploited the confines of “normal”? Desperate to fit in, I would sooner disown my passion than admit to my peers that I loved poetry. But compromising myself came with a cost: I felt powerless, even worthless. I became a captive to my insecurities, a prisoner to my fear.
Writing was my liberation. On the page, I could be myself and love myself. Words gave me a voice. Somewhere between the left and right margins, I had discovered a place to belong: I wanted to be a writer.
I identify with the aphorism “Don’t wish for it; work for it.” As soon as I submerged myself in the intricate process of self-publishing, I kept pushing forward. My family and friends reminded me that I could beat the odds and believed in me even as I struggled to find faith in myself. After months of writing, editing, and decisions, I realized just how enriching the experience had been and how much I had grown up. Flipping through the pages of my published poetry collection created an unmatched memory; moreover, my journey had taught me the importance of determination, tenacity, and courage. Now I had an achievement to be proud of.
Except I wasn’t proud. I became ashamed of my far-fetched dreams, the delusions I had championed. Publication wasn’t the victorious finish line I’d imagined; in fact, I had yet to overcome my greatest challenges. How would I get past the doubt that consumed me? When would I come to value myself and my talents? Why did I write?
My mom says sharing her writing is like standing naked in front of a million people; as complete strangers read my heartbreakingly personal poems, I came to have increasing respect for her simile. I had expected to feel accomplished after reaching my goal, but some days, that was hardly the truth. With each book sale, I found myself assuming people would hate my work. The feeling was sickening. Had my endeavors been a waste of time—or worse, a waste of heart?
Pushed into new experiences and out of my comfort zone, I was painfully aware that intense excitement was synonymous with poignant fear. When I was offered the opportunity to give a 20-minute presentation about my book, for example, the joy was once again muffled by my penetrating self-doubt. I remember the moment before I spoke, the defeat in looking out at the audience and telling myself, “I can’t do this!” At that crucial juncture, a friend came up to me and reminded me of all the people who supported and loved me. Even when I’d felt like quitting on myself, they hadn’t given up on me. “Everybody’s here for you. You gotta remember that.” Empowered by my friend’s guidance, I discovered the courage to share my story: the challenges, the failures, the fulfillment. I opened up in a way I never had. My words were raw and genuine: I let my soul speak.
Yet the questions persisted. Would the world think twice if I stopped writing? Was I impacting anyone? Did I matter? Six months after the publication of my book, I found answers.
My book designer had taken an out-of-state trip and met with her friend, a special education teacher. As they compared the projects they had been involved in over the past year, my book designer gave her friend a copy of my book. Suddenly, the teacher became enthusiastic: One of her students, a fourth grader, struggled with school, yet he possessed an exceptional talent for writing. Seeing my poetry collection—realizing that creating a book was within reach—just might give him the push he needed to go further with his work.
After discovering the powerful outreach of my poems, I was awestruck. I had inspired someone miles away to realize his aspirations, and for the first time, I was truly proud of myself. That insightful moment changed my life: Because of a stranger, I hold myself to higher expectations. I no longer assume that readers will find my work abysmal; rather, I hope others relate to my poetry, but if not, I still have faith that my endeavors are worthwhile. Ultimately, my interest in writing has shifted from a passion to an all-encompassing dream—a dream of crystallizing truth, extending compassion, and making a difference.
Allison, your work is beautiful just as you are, and don’t worry about the haters that won’t like it. They have never published a book as good as both of the ones you wrote , and until they have, their poor judgement is just their problem. I pity them for their lack of insight.