Write Like A Jellyfish; Publish Like A (Whale) Shark
I’m chatting with a friend over Voxer, who is weighing the pros and cons of saying yes to a speaking opportunity. Unlike podcasting, which is very much in her lane, she’s been asked to do a live TV interview—something we both agree is terrifying.
Pro: this gig would promote her latest book to a new, large audience.
Con: she’d have to overcome a significant amount of fear and anxiety to do it.
My friend proceeds to share some specific insecurities, recalling something an Uber driver had said to her years ago. She had been in the car with her sister en route to the airport, when the driver—who was apparently eavesdropping—interrupted their conversation.
“Can I offer you some feedback?” the man asked.
Caught off guard by the question, my friend somewhat hesitantly nodded from the backseat.
“You say ‘like’ too much,” he informed her.
Upon hearing this story, rage rises in my chest. I want to punch that guy in the throat, I type into our Voxer thread. The audacity of this total stranger. What kind of Uber driver insults his passengers?! As my friend tells it, she barely uttered another word for the duration of the drive.
Apparently she’s felt a bit insecure about her speaking abilities ever since, which blows my mind because I have heard this friend speak many times, and she is always eloquent. Funny. Confident. Equal parts charming and wise.
When I hear this story, my response comes easy: He’s an idiot. He had no right to say that. Put his critique out of your head! Delete it from your brain!
At the same time, I deeply understand her plight. Anytime I receive positive feedback about my work, it goes in and out of my head like a train passing through a tunnel. Negative feedback, on the other hand, makes a permanent home in my brain. It’s funny how quickly praise whooshes through my mind, while any shred of criticism takes its shoes off, puts its feet on the coffee table, and asks for a cup of tea.
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A couple of years ago while prepping a podcast outline, I typed out three whole paragraphs apologizing for the recent “intensity” of our episodes. Why? Because I accidentally saw a one-star podcast review that said, “this season has been depressing.”
Not only did that review live rent-free in my mind for months, it also drove me to craft a comprehensive apology to read on air in our final episode of the season.
But was I, actually, sorry? Was I sorry we created an episode about breast cancer? Trauma? Addiction? Was I sorry for the time and effort we dedicated to carefully and intentionally discussing these significant topics with grace and nuance? Was I sorry that some of our listeners scheduled mammograms after listening to our show? Was I sorry that some of our listeners made counseling appointments after we discussed trauma?
No. I wasn’t.
And yet, all it took was a single one-star review—titled, “A Bit Depressing”—to make me question everything.
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This is one of the most challenging parts of being an artist, and particularly a writer: the constant transitioning between thin skin and thick skin.
Did you know jellyfish don’t have lungs? Their skin is so thin they absorb oxygen right through it. This is how I want to write: with love and hope and light and wonder passing right through me. I want to stay soft. Fragile. Transparent. I want to write honestly and vulnerably with a heart exposed to the world.
When I finally work up the courage to share my work publicly, though, that same heart needs a bit of protection around it.
In stark contrast to jellyfish, whale sharks have some of the thickest skin in the world. Their hard, rough skin can be up to six inches thick, providing structural support, insulation, and (most importantly!) defense against predators.*
We can’t approach the blank page with thick skin—hard to the world, defensive, and guarded— because that posture holds us back from being vulnerable. Similarly, we can’t approach the court of public opinion with paper-thin skin—hypersensitive, delicate, easily offended—because we’ll be torn to shreds.
I know I’m all over the place with the animal analogies at this point, but this is where we’ve got to channel our inner chameleons. We’ve got to shape shift. Back and forth, back and forth.
In other words: write with thin skin, publish with thick skin — and be careful what you say around Uber drivers.
Writing prompts:
What does it look like to “write like a jellyfish”—with light and hope and emotions passing straight through you? What other qualities and/or postures do you believe might enhance your writing practice?
Write about a time you wish you’d had thicker skin.
Do you ever feel guarded or defensive in your writing? Why?
*Unlike actual sharks, whale sharks are known as “gentle giants.” They’re not aggressive at all. This is important for the metaphor because I’m not suggesting we dive into the online ocean showing our teeth, ready to attack. There’s a difference between having thick skin and sniffing for blood.
