Raising vs. Razing: The Importance of Self-Belief and Compassion for Writers and Editors

“Burn it down. Easy. Annihilating is easy. Razing things to the ground is easy. Trying to fix what’s broken is hard. Hope is hard.” – Loki, “Heart of the TVA”

While most Marvel content has been lacking lately, the Loki series has pretty much been on point since the first episode. But I never thought this time-travel romp would get me thinking about life as a creative writer and digital content manager.

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Like many of you, I spend my days formulating and pitching ideas (sometimes to myself), slinging syllables, and reiterating on it all. And not just for my own work, but others’ as well, which can be nerve-wracking enough.

But we’ll get to that. Let’s get back to the quote, which stands out for two reasons.

Self-rejection is easier than putting it all on the line.Razing someone else’s work is easier than raising it up.

Working in a field as subjective as writing, people tell you to distance yourself from the work. To look at it objectively.

But I’m only human, and like most, a big part of my identity is tied to the work I do. You may feel the same. We can’t always control that feeling, but we can, and should, embrace it. Because something mysterious happens when the syllables travel between synapses and out through the fingertips.

Hemingway used to call it bleeding at his typewriter. He’s not far off.

Those words, those ideas—creatives have a visceral connection to what we churn out. Even if words are just a seemingly pseudo-random combination of symbols. But they’re not, are they?

The words I write are imbued with my essence, my passion. Even if I’m writing toward the same goal as someone else—say a coworker or fellow author—their words and mine will never be the same. Nor yours to mine.

Nor should they. For in that divergence, there lies beauty.

What we as humans do with words is the closest thing to magic I’ve ever seen. Making that magic? It’s one of the scariest, most doubt-ridden things we choose to do.

But sharing the product of that with others—at the risk of looking like a fool? Of feeling like a fraud?

We’re baring our souls with every word we put on the page. Or screen.

That’s not scary. That’s terrifying.

And because we writers are our own worst critics, we often self-reject before an idea has the chance to take flight.

Self-rejection is easier than putting it all on the line.

Sharing ideas, or writing, is scary. People might not like what they see. But they just might love it. And if there’s a chance at that, and brightening up the world along the way, shouldn’t we take it?

When you’re writing, does it feel like there’s a self-criticizing demon parrot sitting on your shoulder, squawking insults? Does it point out every imbecilic “mistake” you’ve made? That you’re a hack, and you should hang up your spurs… er, pen… er, keyboard?

It’s okay. We all have a demon parrot. Mine’s name is Chad.

Chad is the manifestation of all my self-doubt, insecurity, and anxiety I feel as a writer. His lambasting echoes out, because, deep down, I think what I’m doing is futile. That my words don’t matter.

And… I won’t sugarcoat it. The feeling sucks.

Over time, Chad’s squawking can become the way I see myself. As that happens, I close myself off; I’m less likely to share ideas; I’m not at all down with boldly going where no writer has gone before.

It’s the easy route to take. To reject yourself before anyone else can. To protect yourself from being vulnerable. Even the best writers grapple with this. It’s far easier to keep our “darlings” to ourselves than it is to give them a chance in the world.

But a world where no one shares their unique perspective and their ideas is a bleak, bland world, one without uniqueness and creativity and vibrancy.

That’s not a world I want to live in.

So if you can relate, start telling your version of Chad to put a sock in it, because you have unique ideas worth sharing.

And the world wants—and needs—to hear them.

Razing someone else’s work is easier than raising it up.

Editors have to be shrewd. They have to be discerning—about the work. They must show compassion to the people behind it.

Let me ask you a question. What comes easier: editing your writing, or editing someone else’s?

Someone else’s, right? Because there’s no connection between your brain, your soul, and the words on that page. They’re just… words. Squiggly symbols on a stark white field. Or black, if you write in dark mode.

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To you, as an editor, that’s all they are. Words. To the person who wrote them, those words are so much more. That’s that visceral, almost magical, connection at work.

(It’s also why your inner Gollum claws his way out when you’re editing your own work, whispering “My precioussss” over every letter.)

Since you lack that intimate connection to someone else’s words, it’s 1,000x easier for your ruthless red pen to hack those words limb from limb, leaving a bloodied battlefield in your wake. Maybe you even sprinkle some brusque, rushed comments in along the way.

We all have writing goals and deadlines to meet, and we can’t always give a piece the full time and thought it deserves—but it’s important we do exactly that.

This is where a lot of us may fall short. It’s where we all need to rethink our approach. Where we need to take a beat, or three.

Provide clear, constructive feedback? Yes.Offer structural advice? Yes.Attack the person behind those words? No.Question their skills, their abilities? Never.

Your writer opened a vein and bled on to that page, and repaying them with the comment equivalent of a sword between the ribs isn’t acceptable. Iron hide is important for writers to have, yes, but an editor’s open heart and trust is just as crucial.

Building your writer up comes from that layer of trust and compassion. It’s what gives them the safe space to provide the realest, the most raw (rawest?) ideas.

That’s where true creative strength lies. It’s what gives room for the whoppers to come out to play. Those ideas that, without a foundation of trust, often make people turn tail and run.

So how can you help the big ideas frolic without fear? It’s not easy.

Clashing egos can get in the way. Others can take creative skill for granted, may believe they can write or draw or basket-weave better. Sometimes, the foundations are rocky.

To fortify them, we, as a creative collective, must build each other up.

Attack the work. Attack the ideas. But never tear down the person behind them. Be intentional about feedback, but always layer in compassion for the creative(s) behind it. And watch as they flourish, free to let the words and “what ifs” fly. Watch them unleash their full potential.

It’s in humanity’s best interest, because it’s how the world becomes a better, richer place.

And as a creative and a writer, that’s a world I want to live in. What about you?