I Am a Real Writer.

I work with a lot of writers who don’t consider themselves to be real writers. Now, this might not seem very important, but it’s an essential part of the creative process. Very little can happen on paper before someone is able to look into the mirror and access their identity as a writer.

Allow me to explain.

Back in the day, I was a competitive figure skater.

Yes, you read that correctly.

I skated six days a week for multiple hours each day during most of my childhood and adolescence. I even spent one summer in Cape Cod training with Nancy Kerrigan’s team of coaches. By the time I was a freshman in high school, I had reached the point where I was landing complicated jump combinations and nailing my footwork routine with regularity. However, my competition scores had plateaued. One day, I asked my skating coach what was missing. I figured that she would tell me to work on an extra jump or spin sequence.

Her response completely floored me.

My coach looked directly into my eyes and said, “Lauren, do you think you’re a good skater?”

I laughed.

But my skating coach wasn’t laughing. Instead, she proceeded to tell me that I wasn’t advancing in my skating career because it was clear to the world that I didn’t consider myself to be a real skater. That I didn’t take myself seriously. So, my coach told me to go home and stare into the mirror while reciting the following phrase: I am a good figure skater.

I left the rink that evening feeling extremely defeated. I found myself wishing for a solution that involved anything besides tending to my historically low self-esteem. But I wanted to turn things around. I was tired of coming in second when I felt that I deserved to win. I knew I had it in me. And so, I began my homework assignment.

The first time I stared into my bedroom mirror, I laughed as soon as I opened my mouth.

The next night, I tried again.

“I am a good—”

And the next night.

“I am a good figure ska—”

And again.

“I am a good…this is ridiculous.”

After failing to utter that one, measly sentence aloud for an entire week, I reluctantly returned to my next coaching session. I told my coach that I didn’t see the purpose of this exercise. That it was useless. That I could go out there and skate well regardless of whether or not I believed I was a real skater or a good skater. And that’s when my coach said something to me that I will never forget:

“Lauren, the only reason that you aren’t winning these competitions is because the judges watch your program and they don’t believe you. They watch you run through the motions without any real presence on the ice. It’s clear that you don’t think you deserve to be competing at this level. If you want to something to change, you need to step into your power and become someone worth watching. Make them see you.”

I froze.

I stared deep into my coach’s eyes as her words lingered in the air. Make them see you.

I knew she was right.

Later that evening, I stood in front of my bedroom mirror, motivated by the sheer determination to see myself clearly for the first time. I looked into my own eyes as I said, “I am a real figure skater. I am a good figure skater. I deserve to be here.”

I felt something shift.

The following year, I won every competition that I entered. Nothing about the mechanics of my program had changed at all. I even skated in front of some of the same judges. But this time, I believed in every ounce of my footwork. I believed in every graceful arm movement. I believed in every solid landing. Figure skating became a full-body sensory experience. I was firing on all cylinders. I was completely alive. And the judges saw me. But only after I had seen myself.

The same is true in writing.

If you think that you can write something that you only partially believe in and have that land with a reader, think again. Writing is a full-body sensory experience. It requires you to fire on all cylinders. It’s one of the most important ways we say, I want you to see me. And if you can’t see yourself, then no one else will.

So, before you pick up the pen or open that Word document, perhaps it would help to spend a few minutes in front of the mirror reciting these sentences:

I am a real writer. I am a good writer. I deserve to be here.