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Imagine starting your career in your early twenties at the very highest rungs of the ladder, having won a coveted, keenly competitive entry-level position working closely with power players.
You have the brightest of futures lined up: continuing higher education in your field with one of the most prestigious institutions in the world, pursuing a career you are passionate about—the most promising of up-and-comers with seemingly no limits on the horizon of what you might become and accomplish and dream for yourself and your life and your career.
And then imagine that one thoughtless youthful misstep, the kind that nearly everyone makes at some point in their lives, not only derails all the plans and promise that had lain ahead of you, but turns you into both a global joke and a punch line.
What if your worst mistake became the thing that defined you for the rest of your life?
I’m describing what happened to Monica Lewinsky in the nineties, when as a White House intern she was demonized, humiliated, and thrust into the global spotlight for the two-year affair she had with President Bill Clinton.
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Let’s not rehash the details—they are certainly out there in plenty if you need a refresher. But I’m betting when I mentioned her name you already had an immediate reaction, whatever it may have been: a conclusion you’ve made about her, a characterization, even just a gut response of amusement or disgust or anger or pity, the shadings and causes no doubt different depending on your political persuasion.
But in every case, you’re not judging or responding to Monica Lewinsky the person. You’re reacting to the story that’s been told about her, whatever version of it you’ve been exposed to and accepted.
When your life becomes the root of a saga that extends into the most public and visible of venues, then your story ceases to be yours. It doesn’t matter what the truth is, what your truth is. It doesn’t matter who you really are, or how human and universal and even understandable your missteps may have been. You will live defined by them because you will live defined by the story others have told about you…forever.
I’m going somewhere with this relative to our writing and stories, but first let me say this: Monica Lewinsky has become someone I deeply admire because she’s doing what can often be so incredibly difficult to do: taking back her own narrative, no matter how daunting it may be—even now, twenty-seven years after she was ridiculed, abased, and dismissed in the harshest and most far-reaching of attacks.
She is refusing to define herself by other people’s terms, and doggedly determining who she is and who she will be.
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In a jarringly, poignantly candid conversation about her life on the first episode of her new podcast, Reclaiming, Lewinsky talks about what happened to her, and its impact on her and on her entire life.
She nakedly shares her shame, humiliation, mortification as the most intimate details of her life were publicly dissected, and broad judgments were passed upon her by people who didn’t know her, had never even met her.
What if your worst mistake became the thing that defined you for the rest of your life?
She shares the ruinous effect on her finances of million-dollar legal fees (which government standards dictated she should have been reimbursed for, and yet she never was despite that every other government official involved was). The stifling effect on her future, her plans to go to grad school and be a forensic psychologist. The staggering loss of privacy, loss of anonymity.
Lewinsky heartbreakingly talks about the effect of that time on her family, on her sexuality, on her ability to trust, after the equally public betrayal of a woman she believed to be her friend but who was secretly recording their personal conversations. The effect on her future relationships: On one talk show, prominent personality Dr. Joyce Brothers said, “Can you imagine someone bringing Monica Lewinsky home and saying, ‘I’m going to marry Monica Lewinsky’?”
Can you imagine going through any of that?
“I just remember going to bed at night and sobbing,” Lewinsky says on her podcast. “And I don’t really pray, but I kept praying: I just didn’t want to wake up. I just didn’t want to wake up…. I just wanted to not exist.”
How would you recover from that? How would you regain your self-confidence, your self-worth? How could you live knowing that anywhere you went, the moment people heard your name or saw your face they knew some of the most intimate and vulnerable details of your life, and had already formed an opinion about who you are?
“Basically it was Xanax or death,” Lewinsky says of how she coped during that time.
At twenty-four years old.
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Monica Lewinsky went through all that and so much more, and yet throughout it all she never took the easy road: changing her name, going to ground, negating herself and letting other people dictate her path. Instead she has relentlessly worked to define her own identity, forge a career for herself, create a meaningful, fulfilling life.
She has been determined to tell her own story about herself—to herself and also to others.
I don’t know about you, but I don’t know many people who have that kind of fortitude and ferocity. I don’t know whether I have it: Not to simply figure out and define who you are, but to reclaim it from the narrative of others. To write your own story about yourself and your life.
Lewinsky’s story speaks so strongly to me on a number of levels, but I’m also struck by what it can teach us about our own stories, both the ones we write and the ones we are living.
In our writing, how much of your characters and their arcs are dictated by how others see or define them? How does that affect their self-view, their confidence, their choices in life? How have other people’s views and versions of your characters shaped who they have become—and who they themselves may even (mistakenly) believe themselves to be? And what role does reclaiming their own definition of who they actually are play in their arc, in the throughline of the story?
In our lives and creative careers, where have you allowed yourself to be defined by others’ perceptions of you? If your agent, editor, or readers don’t like a story, does that color your own opinion of it—or of yourself or your ability?
Where have you allowed yourself to be defined by others’ perceptions of you?
What about poor sales, or bad reviews? What about rejections from agents and editors, or indie-pubbing your book and not getting much traction? Have you allowed setbacks in this industry—which are so normal, and mostly outside of the author’s control—to dictate how you perceive yourself or your worth?
Are you resisting writing in a new genre that may intrigue you because you worry that your readers or agent or editors may not like you “straying from your lane”? Are you considering changing your very name—as an author—because you worry that people may have preconceptions about you or your work?
In your writing—and even in your public speaking, your social media—do you sanitize or whitewash or moderate your real opinions or beliefs, because of fear of what people may think or say about you?
Even in your personal life, do you fall into expected patterns or behavior with the people in your life? It’s so true it’s become a joke, but often we revert to our child-selves when spending time with our families, or the version of us that they expect to see.
We may even fall into doing it with our partner and kids, our friends, our boss and coworkers—being the person they believe or want us to be, the version of ourselves they see us as, rather than the raw, authentic version of ourselves we are.
We might do it with things as seemingly minor as how we dress or present ourselves. My husband always calls me out when I dismiss something as “not age-appropriate” for me. By whose definition? he rightly asks me.
Whose definition of who I am matters but my own?
Whose view of my creative work matters more than mine, as its creator? I don’t mean that we believe it’s always perfect—but it always holds a foundational value even if it isn’t to everyone’s taste or standards. Even if it needs work—development or deepening or polish.
Even if our writing needs wholesale revision to be as effective as we want it to be, we are the ones who must hold fast to our belief in its fundamental worth.
The same way Monica Lewinsky tenaciously held on to hers.
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Here’s another reason I have such deep, boundless admiration for Lewinsky: She has also turned her suffering toward helping alleviate others’, as an outspoken activist against cyberbullying.
“Having survived myself, what I want to do now is help other victims of the shame game survive, too,” she said in a summit speech for Forbes. She gave a moving and inspiring TED talk about it. She speaks and writes and now podcasts about overcoming shame and bullying, and helping others reclaim their own narratives.
And her Twitter game, if you haven’t yet enjoyed her witty, incisive tweets, is potently, hilariously on point.
Perhaps we, too, can turn the battles we’ve fought, the tribulations we’ve experienced, to the good: to strengthen and assert who we are, and take back our own narratives from those who may try to create one for us. And like Monica Lewinsky, maybe while doing so we can reach a hand to others to help them past their own challenges, frustrations, and setbacks.
One of the most enduring struggles I’ve had in my life—that maybe many of us have—is taking back our own stories from those who would define them for us. I feel as if so much of my life has been about finding out who I actually am—and unswervingly, boldly being that authentic self in the world.
What if you took back your own narrative? What if you stopped gauging your writing, your writing career, your progress, by other people’s standards?
It’s not always well received (ask my family when I’m not being the version of me that they expect). It may not always be popular, and may in fact limit my appeal, a consideration in any career that’s at least partly dependent on others’ views of you.
But what it’s given me is a confidence and contentment inside my own skin that I lacked for much of my teens, twenties, thirties…even into my forties. It’s given me agency and autonomy in my life, and a sense of self that, while not always unshakable (those inner demons still swarm out of their cave from time to time and undercut my confidence), is a much more solid foundation than it used to be.
It has given me my voice as an artist—and I’m including my editing in that too, as much a creative art as any of the writing I do.
What if you took back your own narrative? What if you stopped gauging your writing, your writing career, your progress, by other people’s standards?
Read more: “Whose Standards Are You Judging Yourself By?”
What if you wrote the stories you want to write, shared the messages and themes and beliefs that matter to you, freely explored your own creative impulses and desires without worrying whether anyone else will like them, will approve, will give you the nod?
What if you stopped letting other people’s opinions and judgments about you have any influence on how you regard yourself, or how you conduct yourself in the world?
I’m not saying we exist independently of others, or of the realities of the world and this business—how could we?
I’m just wondering if we might all be more genuine, more fulfilled, and happier if we found that authentic, confident core of our true selves and honored that—come what may.
Over to you, authors. How do other people’s opinions or expectations or judgments—of you, of your work or career—affect you? How do you respond or react when you realize you may be subsuming some core aspect of yourself or your creative work to try to please others, or meet external expectations or standards? How do you balance creating marketable work that will appeal to readers with creating the stories and career that are true to your authentic self?
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34 Comments. Leave new
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
Oh Tiffany, this one really spoke to me. One advantage of aging is that the layers you’ve accepted as truth – the things others thought of you, fall away.
I’ve found I LIKE what’s left!
Only wish I’d learned this truth earlier.
I’ve found this to be true too, Laura–I often say I wouldn’t go back a day to be younger if it meant sacrificing the comfort and confidence I’ve found with age. (Wouldn’t mind fewer wrinkly bits, though…) Thanks for the comment!
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
Love this idea of making your own narrative! Great post.
Thanks, friend!
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
So well done. A masterpiece of a lesson. The answer too often is we need to be okay embracing our deepest fears. Writing into obscurity, rejection, or offense if that’s where our words lead. Being human, and egotistical enough to pursue writing books, makes that oh so hard!
It does, doesn’t it? It’s such a naked and vulnerable thing–but also the glory of this pursuit, if we can manage to let all our bare authenticity spill out onto the page. Thanks, Paulette.
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
Beautiful post, Tiffany. Thank you for sharing it. As a young twenty-two year old woman working a stone’s through from the White House that same year with the same name (every man who called our office and made the same tawdry joke when I answered the line thought they were brilliant), I was deeply sympathetic to what Lewinsky as a person must have been going through. As I wrap up my 40s and step into my 50s I am looking back on many of the stories I tell myself about myself and dissecting which of those voices are my own or someone else’s. Owning my own stories is part of the journey and you’ve articulated this beautifully for any other woman on the path.
I think I wasn’t really tuned in enough then to realize what an injustice was being visited on her. I wish I had.
I am doing what you’re doing–working to peel away ever more of the layers we paper over our truest selves with over the course of our lives, until we decide to strip them all back and let the real us out. It’s scary…but thrilling. Thanks for this comment, Monica.
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
Thank you for this post, a case of the post I needed when I needed it. It’s a battle I’ve long waged, a strange division within me, that I deeply feel the weight of disapproval and the anxiety that flows in behind, yet am a stubborn Taurus who practices yoga to help push through the anxiety to do what I want. If nothing else, my eventual end will come knowing that I wrote honest stories. That might not provide peace for anyone else, but it’ll provide me peace.
I love when a post hits the right person at the right time.
Honestly, I’m not sure we ever fully push past our anxieties and self-doubts. But I think we can get more and more adept at recognizing them and grappling with them–and eventually realizing that we can coexist with them, and that they’re normal and human. Just another facet of who we are–one we don’t have to disown. I love that you’ve found yoga to help you do that. Thanks for this comment, Christina.
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
Hi, Tiffany!
Great post!
I spent the first fifty years of my life living to the expectations of others (primarily family) and pushing aside my wants and needs. So I can relate to family not always being welcoming when being your authentic self. However, I’ve raised and supported my son to be his authentic self, and an unexpected thing has happened: He’s taught me not to pay attention to what others think or believe. It hasn’t been easy, but I’m learning not to care what others think or say.
As for my writing: I remind myself that not everyone will or can relate to my stories; I’m writing for me and telling the story I must tell in the best way I can tell it; and I do believe there are readers who will want my story because I know there are people who can relate.
For twenty-five years I’ve known that I have a story to tell. And I’ve told it. I will do what’s in my power to get it into the world, but one thing I know: Compromising who I am to get it out there isn’t worth it. It will find its own way.
Another thought: Not one of us knows the story another has lived. We make mistakes, and we have pain and regrets that we carry.
That last comment you make is so simple and profound, Samantha. I try to remind myself of it often–when I am short-tempered with someone’s behavior (getting cut off in traffic) or dismissing someone based on beliefs I don’t agree with, or find myself snap-judging anyone. We are all battling demons of our own.
I love the way you have raised your son–what a gift. And what an unexpected bonus that your rearing of him, and his own growth as a person, have bounced back to help you let go of worrying about what anyone else thinks of you, either.
I think our writing careers are most fulfilling when we’re able to do what it sounds like you are: Know why we write and what we want from our creative work, and remain true to that. Thanks for sharing this.
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
I needed this on so many levels. Thank you for your insightful words that exposed and articulated a vulnerability I hadn’t been able to diagnose. I am starting my day with a new mindset. I’m am grateful for your post.
What a nice thing to hear! This makes me happy. Thanks, Judy.
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
This is such an important post. Thank you for reminding us not to give others power over our narratives. I quit writing for several years after my thesis director, screamed and belittled me during my defense. Nothing as devastating as Monica Lewinsky’s travail, but the humiliation and damage he inflicted on my confidence still takes a toll. I cringe when I reread those old essays from my thesis—even the one he chose to publish in the school journal—partly because I’ve grown and hopefully improved despite that hateful old goat.
Oh, Pat, this story hurts my heart (and frosts my ‘nads). I’ll never understand the impulse some people have to tear down others’ creative efforts. I’m so glad you didn’t let it derail you or your writing–at least not forever. That attitude says so much more about your thesis director than it does about you or your writing. Keep writing, friend!
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
I am so grateful for this post and your thoughts and perspectives. Like many others here, I needed to hear this. I winced several times as I read and recognized the behaviors that don’t honor me and who I am. After hitting my 60s, I said I was done living up to others’ expectations. This is my life and I get to choose. But it’s an ongoing process because old habits die hard. So, thanks for the kick in the pants to remind me!
I think we all do most of these, from time to time! The trick is noticing it, and knowing how to stop. I get better and better at that, and it sounds like you are too.
This is the big bright spot of aging! And what I wouldn’t trade about it for anything. Thanks for this comment, Emily.
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
What a great post! And how awesome that it reminded us to have compassion not only for Monica , but also for ourselves and all of our mistakes.
Sometimes it’s easier to be compassionate to others than to ourselves. I’m trying to learn that (over and over and over). 🙂 Thanks for the kind comment, Luca.
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
What a wonderful post. I’ve long had such respect for Monica Lewinsky and all she has overcome. I was a woman in my late twenties living in Chicago, but dating a guy named Bill from Arkansas at the time, and I remember all the jokes and commentary I had to endure. I can’t even fathom how it was for her.
I’ve spent the past year really examining my writing career, looking at all my whys (because we all contain multitudes) and redefining what I consider success using my own yardstick. Thank you for sharing such a insightful and thought-provoking post!
She is an extraordinary person, from all that I see and hear of her. What a terribly raw deal she got from what happened to her–made a scapegoat and a laughingstock and a scandal, for the kind of youthful misstep every damn one of us has made in some form. I so admire her fortitude and resilience.
Love that you examine your own work through your own lens. That’s such a skill, one it can take years to develop. But it’s what brings us into our full potential as creatives. THanks for the comment, Maggie!
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
Thank you for such a wonderful post! I remember all too well the sordid details the media took such glee in rehashing, but I don’t recall any of them asking how this young woman felt, having the intimate details of her relationship with a man–and her betrayal by a supposed friend–aired relentlessly. Ms. Lewinsky’s courage is breathtaking and inspiring, and her story stands as a reminder to practice the compassion we’d like the world to show us.
I don’t remember that either. Even now, I’m appalled that the main players–including Clinton–act as though she was the villain, the femme fatale. I think politics is pretty good at stripping the humanity from people, in others’ eyes (and maybe even in their own, judging by the behavior of many at the moment). I have such admiration for Lewinsky. I hope she knows how many people do. Thanks for this, Jo Anne.
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
I’m glad to know that Ms. Lewinsky is thriving and assisting others to recover from bullying.
Having co-dependent tendencies, I often cower when judged or criticized, but as I age, I realize that I’m steering my own ship. I take deep breaths and typically decide authenticity is worth the risk of disapproval or even rejection. There are family members whose needs and privacy I place above my creative projects. I lean into my faith and spiritual practices when pulled between authenticity and the fear of other people’s reactions.
If you get a chance to listen to the podcast episode, it’s really affecting–and inspiring.
It’s funny how many comments here on this post share your insight–that with age you find yourself less concerned about others’ opinions, framing your life more through your own lens. The proverbial fewer fucks to give, I suppose, right? 🙂 Authenticity has become my North Star–in everything I do. The older I get the more I realize it’s the core of a fulfilling, meaningful life. Glad to hear you’re finding your own fire, Lee–and I love that you’ve found tools to help you do it.
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
I found her part in that awful business easier to excuse than his. He was a married man, old enough to know better, who had been elected to the highest office in the nation. I thought it was reasonable to expect such a person to respect the office and to demonstrate the character appropriate to our elected officials. Failing that, I thought a man of any character should have done anything possible to keep the lady’s name out of it or to minimize her role and the impact of discovery on her. Impeachment, especially impeachment that returned no penalty seemed far too light a consequence. Though they are barbaric and ineffective, the pillory and horsewhipping suggest themselves. I’m gonna stop here.
I write for myself. First. How could I do anything else? Why should I? There’s some satisfaction in the expression, but that’s not the only goal. When I’ve done what I can—don’t know what the next step is, I share it with my readership. Both of them. Well, there are more than two, but not many more than two. Because one of my other goals is to entertain other people. (I write mysteries and fantasies.) And possibly, if I can get it right, I’d like to be rewarded for it. I need their help; they see things I wouldn’t.
Then I have to decide what feedback will make the book better and apply it.
I know what I’m trying to do. Sometimes I discover it won’t work, or I can’t make it work. Then it goes into that drawer, at least for now.
I can’t imagine showing anyone something I didn’t feel represented me. Of course, as a result, I have to live with the knowledge that I may never be published. But that’s the best I can do.
I agree, Bob–I don’t know why she was–and is–the one so demonized. (Oh, wait, yes, I do–sexism and misogyny and gender discrimination.) She was twenty-effing-four, and an intern to the literal most powerful man in the world. That kind of workplace imbalance is called harassment–at best. One of the things Lewinsky does that I like is reclaim the way people talk about that incident–whenever anyone on Twitter calls it “the Lewinsky scandal” she renames it “the Clinton impeachment” or “the Starr investigation” or the like.
I love the way you talk about your writing. I think that’s the best we can hope for as creatives–to put our authentic voice and intentions on the page, tell the stories we want to tell, our way. Like you, I don’t know why else I would want to write. I also want to share my writing with others–but first, as you say, I want to write it for me.
Thanks for this comment, Bob. And I’m betting you have more readers and fans than you’re admitting to. 🙂
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
WOW! What a fantastic post. Tiff, I don’t know how you know to say the right things at the right time, but you are ‘bob on’ as we would say (bang on in USA?)
Thank you, Syl! I love it when a post hits the right chord for someone at the right time. 🙂
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
Inspirational as always.
Thanks, Nancy. That means a lot to hear.
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The Real Person!
Tiffany, I always find a gem in your posts, but this one really took my breath away. So universally applicable – on a personal level, for my WIP, and for a controversial project I’ve got in the back of my head. I’ll definitely be filing this away for future reference! On a side note, I kept also thinking of Young Jane Young. Brilliant novel, inspired by Monica Lewinsky. Highly recommend to anyone who hasn’t read it. : )
Oh, Lisa, thank you–it means a lot to hear when the posts hit a chord. And I hope you write that controversial piece!
Thanks for the Young Jane Young recommendation too–adding it to my TBR list.