“You need to grow a thicker skin.”
We’ve all heard it. Almost every writer has been told that if they plan to put their work out for merciless public scrutiny, they must learn to be less sensitive.
It makes sense, but leaves us feeling puzzled and discouraged. How do we develop this tough exterior? Should we give up on our dreams if we can’t, however hard we try? And how come none of the famous authors we love seem to have one?
The confusion, I think, is in the imagery.
“Thick skin” evokes wrinkly hides and reptilian scales. Creatures evolved for protection against savage teeth and claws. In comparison, our skin is tender and vulnerable. When we fall, we end up bruised or bleeding. The briefest contact with a hot surface leaves us blistered and sore.
Our thin skin also allows us to detect the subtlest nuances of texture and temperature. It lets us feel the sensuous embrace of water, the caress of a loved one, the gooseflesh creeping down our arms as we listen to a haunting song.
It’s easy to see how this relates to art and the emotions. The more deeply we experience the influences of the outside world, the more creatively we respond to it. As artists, we neither can be, nor need to be, nor should be armour-plated.
What we need is more faith in the power of our skin to heal.
Rejection and harsh criticism hurt. They pierce our fragile outer layer, and sometimes they live beneath it for a while. Yet we’re more capable than we know of recovering from those wounds and carrying on.
Opening ourselves up to risk comes at a cost. But the scars we bear are a testament to how resilient we really are.
With thanks to Lauren Sapala for her influence on my thinking about this and so much else.
Catherine North 