When I was a teenager, I enjoyed dreaming big. I wanted to be a novelist, I wanted to work on animated features at Disney, I wanted to write games at Sierra (this was back when they were still doing cool stuff like Quest for Glory, Castle of Dr. Brain, and the King’s Quest series). I wanted to be a singer and actress and perform in musicals, I wanted to write musicals, I wanted to direct musicals. I knew that many of these aspirations were unrealistic and difficult, but I wanted them all anyway.
However, a family member who shall remain nameless said something to me one day, perhaps just an offhand remark, that became fully lodged in my young impressionable brain. “Amy,” the person said, “you have delusions of grandeur.” They might as well have said, “Why try, because the only possible outcome is failure.” Even today, half my lifetime later, whenever I think of trying something daring or risky or simply ambitious, those words go through my mind. “I don’t know if I can do this,” I say to my husband, “because so-and-so said.” And then he has to go through the work of convincing me to do whatever it is anyway.
Photo by Tony Fischer
1. It’s difficult to come up with something to say in the first place.
2. Even if you’ve got something to say, it’s difficult to express it in a clear and original fashion.
3. Writing such a story means that on some level, you’ve got to have delusions of grandeur.
I think I had it right as a teenager. Delusions of grandeur are what allow us to strive, to push ourselves beyond our perceived capabilities, to dive into projects of vast scope. They give us permission to take risks, do things that make us uncomfortable, and ignore those who don’t believe we can do it. Delusions of grandeur are what allow us to become great.
So right now, I’m going to finish up this essay, and then I’m going to sit down and work on a short story that scares the pants off me. It makes me uncomfortable, it kind of makes me want to cry, I’m not quite sure I know where it’s going, and even if I did, I’m pretty sure I don’t want to follow it there. All I can do is believe in its potential, as I believe in my own.
Delusions of grandeur are the necessary caterpillars if we want our words to fly.
The Practical Free Spirit 
Delusions of grandeur are some of the most important things you can possibly have. Where else would you get the chutzpah to do something new and exciting?
As far as I can tell, all genuine grandeur begins with a delusion and an adamant determination to proceed anyway, and let the rest work itself out as you go. Not that all delusions of grandeur end up in the genuine thing, but it’s the only meaningful place to start…
Yes, this is why you are so good at convincing me to do everything anyway. 🙂
Quite brilliant, Amy. I endorse this message.
In fact, I resemble this message. Often, I start thinking ‘This piece isn’t any good’ or ‘You really start this over’ or a hundred other things that go through a writer’s brain as they pound away at the keys. If it weren’t for an overwhelming desire to see and measure the finished product for grandeur (as well as a healthy dose of megalomania) I might not ever finish any work at all.
Kudos on doing the scary work. You have my admiration, ma’am. 🙂
After all, some people who start with delusions of grandeur actually succeed … but all the delusions look pretty similar in the trenches. 😉
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#1 is not such an issue for me. It takes time, but I got things to say, at least to myself.
#2? yes, that’s the kicker.
#3? maybe.
I think it’s more that I just keep reaching. Once in a while I stop and go ‘wow, you’re ambitious.’ As in, I don’t think you have the chops to do this story. But it doesn’t matter. Because to say what I want to say, I have to keep stretching. It won’t work any other way. And yes, it slows me down. And yes, it stops me cold at times when I don’t think I can do it. But I keep circling back to these stories. It has taken me years to get closer to having the chops I need. But in retrospect, TT 07 to TT 10? I’ve clearly got more chops now.
I sincerely hope I’m about to read a draft of this ‘scary’ story. Just remember: don’t pull your punches. Don’t avoid the emotional scene, the emotional climax. Don’t be scared. What keeps me going in these weeks is that I’m going to miss an amazing opportunity for feedback if I fail to deliver on my draft.
I’m afraid you’re not getting a draft of this particular scary story (unless you want it separately), but never fear. It feels like most of the things I’m working on these days scare me in one way or another. The novel is terrifying in an entirely different but equally valid way.
I too sometimes think I don’t have the chops for a particular story, but I try to encourage myself to make the attempt anyway. It’s easier now that I realize that I never seem to run out of ideas. 🙂
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“Thin on the ground.” I first heard that from Eddie Izzard.
Nice posting, Amy. I completely agree with all your points, but especially with #2.
My grandeur is in abeyance until I’m selling regularly…
Then…watch out!
Lou
Lou, your grandeur is always present. It’s just a matter of finding the best ways of expressing it. 🙂
I’ve been struggling with something related to this lately. To be great, a story must exude its heart, and the heart of the story is piped in direct from the heart of the writer. How much of myself am I willing to lay bare? How will people react? Are my stories worth the telling — not because of how cleverly they’re written, but because of what worth they bring? Am I worthy of writing worthy fiction?
Lately I’ve been looking over some of my poems, written years ago. Some of these poems are great. I wrote almost all of them in one draft, changed almost nothing. I went into them not meaning to practice writing, not concerned at all particularly for my capabilities, but instead blazing with the need to speak a particular thing as clearly as I could manage it. I didn’t worry about being good or great, only on feeling clearly.
Sometimes I think being great is like being cool; if you’re working at it, you’ll never manage it. That said, if you feel you’re cool, you’re much more likely to end up being thought of as cool — so perhaps the same is true of greatness.
Yes, I think you might be onto something here, Rich. It’s not so much from the desire to be great as from the burning need to express something that I feel great art comes from. But I think we also need our toolbox of craft in order to communicate this to others.
[…] matter for musicals. They talk about things that matter; they have something to say. Just as I mentioned last week that this is a major quality I look for in the short fiction I read, so is it also an important […]