Manifesto as Self Care
How to write a fuck-you notice to those that would undermine you
About six years ago, before I was agented or published, right after chemotherapy and much more acquainted with my mortality than I had been before, I found it necessary to write a manifesto. For as long as I could remember, I had an inner voice whispering to me, you’re not good enough. You’re going to fail. It will be embarrassing. It was insidious and grown-in like an invasive vine. But post-chemo, with my hair half an inch long and still downy and gray, my face puffy from steroids, and alone on a retreat in the Great Smoky Mountains, I decided it was time to tell that voice to fuck off. Here is an abbreviated version of the manifesto I wrote that day.
I will do this as myself.
I will write what I feel like writing.
I will always try to do it better.
I will listen for my own authentic voice—my ideas, my dreams, my self—and make room for it.
Lots of room. Lots and lots of room.
I will be patient.
I will do this as myself.
And I will not regret that I am not someone else.
I will fight the voice that says, stay small, who do you think you are? I will fight the voice that says, you can’t do that. What do you know? You’re going to get it wrong. No one will like it. You’re not so important. You’re not so special. Who wants to hear about all that? You’re no [insert famous person’s name here].
Fuck that voice. Fuck you, voice.
I will shove you out of my consciousness, you belittling, power-stealing, enervating, tight-butt voice.
As the years passed, I referred to that manifesto often, and it carried me a long way. I’m six and a half years NED (no evidence of disease). I have a terrific agent, and as of January 9, 2024, I will have published two novels. The best, most cherished, most impossible dreams of that day in the Smokies have been realized. And yet I am coming back to the idea of the manifesto.
Apparently the inner voices are persistent. And wily. And adaptable. And now, facing less-than-stellar sales of my first book and a future in limbo, they are back.
Whatever success you’ve had? It was a fluke.
People don’t want what you’re writing. You should write what people want.
You’ll never experience the thrill of publishing a novel again.
You’re going to get it wrong.
No one will buy it.
I don’t need anyone to tell me to send those voices the fuck-off notice again. So it’s manifesto time.
I’m sharing this because I think I’m probably not the only one who needs a manifesto. I think many of us struggle with the burden, not just of fear and self-doubt, but of all the external bullshit ideas about success, or literature, or art, or duty, or value, or whatever that has been piled on top of us since long before we were even aware we were carrying it.
So I’m going to share a few thoughts on creating a manifesto—or Fuck Off Notice, if you prefer, and I think I do. This is, of course, what is true for me and your mileage may vary. I should also say, when it comes to creative work I am my own worst enemy. This may not be true for everyone. Address your manifesto to whoever you want. They don’t ever have to see it unless you let them.
Why a manifesto?
Because I need to see my strength and my belief on the page. I need to be able to read it out loud. I need to address the vagueness of inner obfuscation and turmoil with the clarity of words on paper. And when I am bent over with the weight of the bullshit and unable to summon the necessary righteousness to throw it off, I want to be able to pull that file up and remember; to let my clearer, more powerful self step in and do the talking.
How do I write one?
Get the poison out on the page.
For a little while, instead of quieting your fears and doubts, turn them up real loud. Turn them up so you can really hear them. Write them down. Try to get them all, even the sulking, skulking ones that don’t want to come out and show themselves. (Those are the worst ones of all). Don’t be scared, because when you get them all lined up and out in the open, you are going to shoot those motherfuckers down.
Ask not “why” but “how.”
“Why,” for me, is the weakest question. Why do I write? My doubts consume the soft, philosophical answers to this question like toasted marshmallows. “What” is not great either. What do I write? I don’t fucking know. Whatever I want? This question is a great way for me to get turned around and confused. Where and When are useful, practical words. But How is where the power is. How do I write. How am I going to counter all that negative programming? How will I emerge victorious? My answer to this question in 2017, though I wasn’t even aware I was asking it at the time, was I will do this as myself. I will not regret that I am not someone else. Because that was the answer to the my Greek chorus of soul-suckers singing, Other people are better than you.
This is not about what you want to have. It is about how you want to feel. ManifestO. Not ManifestING.
Don’t be afraid to be rude.
This is a Fuck You Notice after all. A manifesto to be shouted from atop a pedestal, or a box, or maybe just the little set of toddler steps you have pushed up in front of the bathroom sink. In fact, why not get up on something? Get yourself higher. Look down on those soul-sucking ideas and see what you have to say to them. If you’re stuck, Fuck you is a good place to start.
Don’t be precious.
Write it down. Tweak it. Make it powerful. But don’t make it a work of art. This is a tool in your toolbox. No one has to ever see it, though I have shared mine with a number of people, and doing so has withered the doubts and shame even further.
Six years ago I wanted to learn and grow, and I wanted to get in—sign with an agent, get a publishing deal, have people read my stories and books. And I did get in. Now, I want to stay in. And through it all, I want to write in that space of mindful, timeless power that I know is right there, literally right at my fingertips. So I’m going to drink some coffee and start a new manifesto: one for the fresh load of BS that the most recent stage of my writing career has deposited in my head, further fertilizing the seemingly immortal BS endemic to my psyche.
This new manifesto is going to have something to do with never letting anything be good enough, looking for approval, and feeling shame or fear of shame. And it will lean on my Finnish sisu (grit, inner toughness, or the ability to act rationally in the face of adversity). Not sure what else. It’s a process.
One bit of my 2017 manifesto that I think I’ll keep though is this:
The odds of success are so small that the only way this is worth doing is if I write exactly what I feel like writing. Not what others want. Not what I think others want. Not even, necessarily, what I think is “good.” The only thing worth writing is what I sit down and want to write.
Creative work is hard. Caring for and protecting your ability to do the work is more than sleeping enough, staying away from negative people, and finding supportive friends, though those are undeniably helpful things. Sometimes protecting your creative work means going on the attack against the forces that undermine you in your own head.
Because once you’re the boss of your own head, no one can stop you.
I’d love to hear what’s on your manifesto. You may be seeing some particular bit of BS that others haven’t been able to name yet. Enlighten us.
Also, OMG my second novel, Principles of (E)motion comes out in LESS THAN TWO WEEKS! I am freaking out a little. More info if you like here.
Ooh, I love a good manifesto. I wrote a writing manifesto for myself in May. In retrospect, there should have been more f-bombs.
https://robynryle.substack.com/p/a-writing-manifesto
100% yes to all of this. I definitely need my own manifesto!