Am I a good writer?

I’d been obsessing over an article for days. It was for an international in flight magazine. I wrote the piece, re-read it a million times, and was pleased with it. I thought it was a well written article with authentic information and strong sources.

Today I received a mail from the editors with a bunch of corrections they wanted me to carry out on said article. My heart sank. My pride was hurt. I went back to the original piece and when I read it this time, it seemed average. I felt rusty. My writing felt redundant. Sentences and ideas seemed templated. The article seemed flat and laboured.

I dug into my inbox and fished out some of my older articles. Pieces I’d written for The Times Of India, Hindustan Times, Discover India… some of the pieces had me grinning with pride, while some, not so much. I read some encouraging feedback that had come in from readers, from people I’d interviewed, from editors… and felt good for a fleeting moment.

I couldn’t help noticing though that my older work is in fact a lot better than the writing I’ve been doing over the last couple of years. And it made me wonder if experience really makes you a better writer. Or does it have to do with the passion with which you get involved in the work? Or the nature of the assignment itself? Or is it the lack of stimulation that an office environment provides? Or is it because I’m not as invested in work as I once was? Or the fact that I was in a darker place then and as is commonly believed, all good art comes from a dark place?

Too many questions. The answers elude me. As I sat at my desk reluctantly making those corrections, I felt like an imposter who’d been caught in the act. My time was up. The mask had fallen. I was just an average person peddling substandard articles that no one really cared much for. I can’t even trust my own judgment when it comes to my work. When I feel like I’ve done justice, I’m asked to change things around, rework certain parts of the article, and given instructions on how paragraphs and sentences need to be shorter. And a complete paragraph – which I still think is central to the story – is carelessly hacked to death.

While I do understand that guidelines need to be adhered to, and that you need to write for your audience, it kills the joy of having written what you think is a good article. You start doubting your skills and your sense of judgment. And from thereon, it’s a slippery slope down the rabbit hole — I could feel myself sinking, my confidence and self esteem had taken a beating and I was just at a loss as to what really constitutes a good piece of writing. Is my lede really strong? Does the concluding paragraph pack a punch? Does the article flow coherently? I couldn’t tell.

Thankfully I was spared more such paranoia because it was D’s bedtime and I had to stay calm to handle it with some grace. It’s amazing though how babies can help you gain perspective. Just a moment ago I was thrashing myself for being a complete failure, but as I lay cuddling D on the bed and planted a kiss on her forehead while she slept, I knew instantly that at this moment, this is all that matters. This moment is special. Everything I’d ever done so far have led to this. At every instant, you are the sum total of all that you’ve endured in life up to that point. Suddenly work seemed trivial, easily dispensable. But not this moment. This moment is everything. It demands that I be fully present. And it’s the least I can do.