Risk and Recovery, Part 2

Last week, we talked about the two kinds of risk, external and internal. How we humans tend to embrace one and reject the other, depending on how we’re wired, and how this tendency echoes on the page in our writing as well as in our lives.

Good tension in story and good stamina for risk in a writing life comes from some agility with both kinds of risk, the balance of tension I spoke of. Did you try the exercise or think about kinds of risk you embraced versus those you avoid?

Today, we’ll look at the second tool I use to make risk recovery easier: how we can determine what part of our lives and selves feels most vulnerable before taking a risk and setting up support for that part ahead of time. It’s all about creating a soft landing for the aftermath of risk, whether the outcome is exciting or disappointing.

Just to recap, here are the four tools for risk recovery that have been in my back pocket for years:

1. rating the risk—external or internal—and building agility between the two (December 5 post)

2. knowing where the risk will hit your life hardest if things go south and supporting the vulnerable part of you before you leap (today’s post)

3. figuring out what would satisfy you (at minimum) and adjusting for it (December 19 post)

4. preparing for the risk in an appropriate way (December 26 post)

Where will the risk hit hardest?

I signed up for a weeklong writing class with a writer I’d admired for years. His short stories were astonishing. I read everything he wrote and when I learned he’d be teaching at a summer conference within driving distance from my hometown, I jumped at the chance.

Because I don’t shy from external risk, I had no hesitation about registering for the class or driving the three hours to get there or asking a friend if I could stay with her that week. Everything flowed for me. I had a story draft to workshop and I had gotten good feedback from my writers group on it. I felt happy to see my friend and totally prepared. These were all external risks that didn’t phase me a bit.

What I didn’t consider was the internal risk of being in the class and putting my tender little story in front of ten people I didn’t know. I had a lot of experience with critique but not with this group or this instructor, however much I loved his work. I had no idea what kind of teacher he was.

So I went into the experience with no support for the vulnerable part of me, the storyteller who was sharing an intimate experience couched in fiction.

Support set up

We don’t usually assess the kind of risk we’re not comfortable with before we leap into an experience. We know what we can do, and we do it. But the other side of the equation is also part of the experience and if we’re not prepared with support for that more vulnerable part of our creative selves, we can come away very damaged.

The week was horrible. The instructor favored two male students who were in his MFA program and we spent most of the time on their stories. I realized on day two that the writing this instructor admired, and felt was worthy of his time, was very different from mine.

I suffered through four days and was critiqued before lunch on the last day. I didn’t go back after lunch. I spent the afternoon driving home. I don’t even know if I said goodbye to the friend I was staying with. And I never worked on that story again.

If I’d planned support, if I’d known ahead of time to protect the vulnerable part of myself, I might have mitigated the risk in this way:

• sign up with a friend so I’d have a buddy in the class for perspective

• researched this instructor for how he was received as a teacher

• choose a less intimate story to workshop

• learn from how others were being critiqued and possibly quit the class before the last day if I didn’t feel ok about the methods

• arrange to talk with a friend on the ride home

But I did none of this. So a story that had some potential was lost to me. I stubbornly stuck it out, because it was expensive in all ways, but nothing about the experience was worth the risk. And the tension was too much for me, at that time in my life. I didn’t grow from the risk. I collapsed.

Recovery via support

As writers, I think we’re wrongly taught to stay stoic when we’re struggling through such experiences. Like severe critique that leaves us shattered rather than encouraged. Like rejection when we expect acceptance. We don’t set ourselves up for falling soft, so we fall hard.

If I’d realized which part of me might be hit by this class, despite my optimism and excitement, I would’ve seen that my emotional self was too tender to finish the week. I would’ve made an effort to nurture that part of me with some of the ideas above.

When you think about a marathoner, who trains for months to have a good race, support ahead of time makes sense. Who would go into a race without training and support? Why don’t we writers consider the marathons of risk in our creative lives and set up the same kind of backup for ourselves?

I know it’s challenging to even guess where we’ll be possibly hurt by a risk. I hadn’t the awareness before that class that I might be walking out on a limb. I also didn’t want to think about anything but success. Because if I’d considered how vulnerable I’d become, I might not have gone.

Writers who take risks and recover well usually have support systems built into their risking. They get help. They spend time and energy preparing before the risk is taken.

This week’s exercise gives you a couple of ideas on how to do that basic self-care.

Your Weekly Writing Exercise

Consider a risk that you took in the past year that paid off. It went well, you felt successful and glad you risked.

What part of your life, yourself, was most vulnerable to being hurt by taking this risk? What did you do to support that part of you, if anything?

Now think of a risk you took this past year that didn’t go as planned. You felt hurt or discouraged by the effort. You wish you hadn’t done it or you’d done it differently. Ask yourself the same questions: What part of your life, yourself, was most vulnerable to being hurt by taking this risk? What did you do to support that part of you, if anything? What might you have done?

I’d love to hear your thoughts and stories about this!

Photo by Jennifer Delmarre on Unsplash