Lately, I’ve noticed what seems to be a gender specific attitude among my writing colleagues. Women writers are constantly seeking approval, from contest judges, critique partners, shoe salesmen–we’re just never convinced we’re worthy unless we’ve been told so, by someone we suspect knows more than we do.

Even long-published authors crave the approval of their buying public, and an accompanying slot on the New York Times bestseller list. That Rita on the shelf serves as a reminder: They like me! They really like me!

Perhaps this need for approval stems from a shortage of self-esteem. In a room full of women writers the words "low self-esteem" inspire yawns. Everyone’s been there, done that. Few of us feel truly successful, no matter how many accolades we’ve received, contests we’ve won, or publishing credits we have. Male writers, on the other hand, will happily tell you all about their publishing success, even if that consists of a mention in the traffic violations report. (Of course, there are exceptions, and a bashful guy is as refreshing as a confident woman.)

So what’s the danger? What’s wrong with bringing our self-effacing, "little ole me" attitude to our writing professions? After all, no one likes a braggart, or worse, a know-it-all-bitch. And there is valuable information to be gained from listening to our colleagues. So why ignore it?

The problem is we sometimes become so caught up in pleasing others that we forget to please ourselves. We write what we think our critique partners will like, or scenes that contest judges will look for, and ignore the books of our hearts. We file away the cutting edge, lessen the risks, soften the blow we suspect is coming. We take out the flavor, and substitute bland. Safety first.

And the tried and true triumphs, once more.

It’s hard to resist the urge to subject our writing to others’ opinions. We women are social animals. It’s why so many technophobes have taken to email and the Internet with enthusiasm. (Alexander Graham Bell noticed the same phenomenom after he invented the telephone.)

But advice can only get us so far. Eventually, we must discover what’s inside our own hearts, our own minds, and ignore the well-meaning counsel of others. We must write to please ourselves. Grab metaphors from the farther reaches of our imaginations, imagery from the piquant edge of the universe. Switch pov (horrors!) when we feel compelled. (Apparently no one bothered to tell Ayn Rand this was a no no.)

One day, we might forsake Times and Courier for–egad!–Bodoni. We might find ourselves using new words–three and four syllable honkers that inspire a dictionary. We might discover we write novellas, or erotica, or funky short stories. We might break away from the bounds of category and genre, or we might find our niche exactly in the middle.

The tried and true, meanwhile, enters another contest.

–Kathy Flake