Why you should hang your worst work on the wall

I used to be superstitious – let’s face it, I was paranoid – about my writing. Whenever I published an article in a magazine (way back in the day when magazines were made of paper), the publisher would send me my complimentary copy as soon as the issue hit the shelves. I would anxiously find my article in the contents, turn directly to the first page, look at my byline, smile, promptly close the pages and put the magazine on my bookshelf. And there it would stay, article unread – at least not read by me.

I had a fear that if I read my piece and stumbled across an error, or something that I wished I had written differently, that I would be forever haunted by the idea of thousands of people reading my horrible work and determining that I had no business writing for a living. This practice went on for years, until writing web content took over and I couldn’t help seeing my words in front of me. I was also comforted by the fact that digital content had made it possible for changes to be made in seconds, even after publication.

Fast forward 20 years, and like any other artist, I still worry about people enjoying my work. But I recently discovered that my former superstition had been replaced by a new deadly sin of writing: egoism.

I had landed a contract writing a series of articles for a national company’s blog. The editor liked my work, but was not a warm and fuzzy guy. So from day one I knew I needed to be on my A game. After I did my research, I made my cinnamon hibiscus tea, turned on my Erykah Badu playlist (the soundtrack of my creativity), put on my writing sweater, and cranked out a 1,200 word article that I thought to be no less than brilliant. I submitted it to my editor and fantasized about him emailing me back to express his astonishment, to say how he had not recently read a better piece of content.

The next day I got an email that said “I like it. Thanks. Send me the invoice. Next piece due by Monday.”

Now, although this was not exactly the Hallmark card level feedback I was expecting, I was thrilled that he was happy and that I had banked another byline. So I dove into my next piece, reread it, and turned it in, a full 24 hours early. I then sat back and waited for another one-liner of praise and my next deadline.

Instead, I got this:

“Sharon, I am afraid I do not like this. It does not have the light conversational tone of your last piece and I think….”

His notes were extensive. In other words, it wasn’t my finest hour.

Now, after 21 years in the writing game, you might think that I would have been able to take that critique on the chin and turn a rewrite around in no time. Well, you’d be wrong. The feedback actually stung. I felt embarrassed, inadequate, and unqualified to rewrite the piece. I turned off my computer and spent two days sulking.

When I received a lighthearted email from my editor asking when he could expect my revisions, I was shaken into reality. What was wrong with me? After two decades of never missing a deadline, was I about to tank a relationship because someone told me honestly what they thought of my work? Yes, actually I was.

And that’s when I was introduced to my ego.

It turns out that my ego was born when my writing career started, and had been raised on a sweet diet of editor’s praise, great reader feedback and down and out gushing from my family and friends. My ego had grown quite strong on this diet, and had forgotten the bitter taste of an editor’s poison pen. So when we got this critique, my ego and I went down for the count.

I started wondering why I had been so affected by my editor’s criticism. I mean, I was no diva. When I work with corporate clients I am always committed to meeting their needs and I know their needs come first. Making changes was not unfamiliar to me; so why did this thumbs down hit me so hard? Hadn’t I been through this before?

Investigating My Past

I went to my file cabinet and dug out some of the old correspondence from editors and employers from over the years. As it turned out, I had received plenty of criticism, especially in the early days. But over time my work grew stronger and more confident, and like anyone else with years of experience, I reached a point of consistently delivering a high-quality product. It’s what I marketed, and it’s the standard to which I held myself. Even when my clients asked for changes, I was still in the driver’s seat as the communications expert, so instead of agreeing to changes, I essentially approved them. That was when I had my A-HA Moment (thanks, Oprah). It seemed that several years of being in control and hitting it out of the park with my work had overshadowed the times I had struck out.

Somehow I had forgotten – or maybe never knew – that my failures were some of my most important work. I had even forgotten that feeling of euphoria that occurs when you get it wrong and then get it right the next time. As I reviewed the rough drafts, submissions and revisions of my work from the last 20 years (I am a bit of a pack rat), I could actually see my growth. There it was, my maturation on paper. Every time someone told me I had missed the mark, I fixed it and remained conscious enough to not commit that same error again. And each lesson got built into my process. This is how I became good at what I do.

Over time, my writing became stronger and I was able to deliver exactly or very close to my client’s requests, often with little to no changes needed. But this experience with my new editor had made me realize that I was no longer opening myself to the benefit of my mistakes. And while I am proud of the career I have built, disconnecting from the superstitious, slightly paranoid and entirely humble part of me had been my biggest mistake. Because it was the learning and development – not the praise and bylines – that made me better. It was time for my ego to take a backseat to my humility.

Nailing it to the wall

I went to my cork board wall and took down the article clippings and emails of praise that had sustained my ego, lulled me into a false sense of perfection, and arrested my development. I replaced those trophies with my real rewards – the critiques, rejections and feedback that, even while stinging, made me push myself harder with each task.

Now I look at my mistake wall and it helps to not only remind me where I came from, but it also helps me sharpen my tools and avoid bad habits. Even as an Instructor, I know that challenging and critiquing my students is the best gift I can give them.

I share this story for a couple of reasons. First, because it’s part of my growth process, to teach myself that sharing my moments of weakness or my failures will not lessen my value; and second, to advise the readers of this piece to examine your mistakes and allow yourself to see how they have helped you grow. The fact is that none of us are without error. What we do with those moments, the lessons we take from them, are what feed us.

Keeping it Real

Don’t get me wrong. There is nothing wrong with having an ego. Everyone who is really good at what they do has a little swagger. I love boxing; one of my favorite moments of the fight is watching the fighters enter the ring. The music, the walk through screaming fans, jumping into the ring - that is all ego. And they need it with them, whispering in their ears and telling them that they are strong and powerful and have everything it takes to win.

But they also need to be humble enough to know that they are going to take some knocks to the head and blows to the gut, and it’s going to hurt. They may even hit the canvas. This is where openness to the lessons of failure takes over. When they go back into training, they’ll know exactly what they need to work on, and be that much more skilled and powerful in their next fight.

Whatever your sport – school, art, business, fitness, technology – make sure you maintain your own balance of humility and ego. Never allow yourself to be closed off from criticism, feedback or failure. Remember that feeling and do what is necessary to not make that same mistake again. And for the sake of your success, keep tacking your worst work on the wall, and reminding yourself that even the greatest among us can still learn a thing or two.

Sharon Daugherty is a writer, artist, instructor and bookworm. She writes for a variety of corporate clients and publications and loves painting whenever she can spare the time. See more of her writing at sharondwriter.com