I learned something fascinating about holly this week (besides that it can be a bush or a tree). What I learned is specific to the leaves. Apparently, holly leaves don’t start out prickly because they’re naturally cranky. They’re prickly because life happened to them.
Let me explain…
Scientists discovered that every holly leaf contains the same DNA. Yet, some leaves grow smooth and friendly. Others grow sharp little spikes that look like they could successfully key your car.
The Difference Isn’t Genetics. It’s Experience.
If deer start nibbling on a holly bush, the plant simply activates certain genes and grows armor. The next batch of leaves comes out looking like they have trust issues.
And that’s when I realized…writers are basically holly bushes.
When we first start writing, we’re the smooth leaves. We’re hopeful and optimistic. We’re convinced our first draft is sparkly, and possibly brilliant. We post things online with the confidence of a puppy who’s never met consequences.
Then the deer arrive.
These metaphorical deer can take many forms: critique partners, editors, agents. Or perhaps they are readers who leave painful reviews.
Whatever shape they take, they nibble.
Sometimes That Nibbling Has Consequences.
Just like holly, writers adapt. After enough nibbling, something surprising happens. We don’t change who we are, we change which parts of ourselves we expose.
The smooth little writer who once wrote, “This is my first attempt, please be kind,” gradually evolves into someone who says things like:
“I’ve revised this manuscript fourteen times and buried three supporting characters in the process.”
Even though (like holly) our DNA remains the same, our “leaves” become pointier. We get tougher and harder to chomp on.
What Really Fascinated Me.
Holly trees don’t waste energy growing spikes where they don’t need them.
The leaves at the top of the tree, that are safely out of reach, often stay smooth. (Nature’s just brilliant, isn’t it?) Why spend resources on armor where nobody is nibbling at you?
That may be the most profound writing lesson I’ve encountered all year.
Not every part of us needs protection.
Every writer has been rejected. Critiqued. Edited. Misunderstood. Ignored. How do we keep from developing those metaphorical spikes everywhere?
Some Spiky Examples:
- Being defensive about every sentence
- Protective of every draft
- Prickly of every suggestion
- Feral about feedback
It’s easy for our writing confidence to slowly erode into angst.
How Do We Stay Focused on the Game, Instead of the Score?
Here’s where we go back to the most incredible mechanism of the holly tree. It only grows spikes where the deer can reach. The rest of the leaves stay smooth, and open to the sunlight.
Maybe writers can do the same:
- Keep healthy boundaries.
- Protect our most vulnerable places.
- Ignore drive-by criticism from strangers who think em dashes means we used AI.
Maybe authors don’t need to armor everything.
Great writing runs on joy and sunlight, as much as pain and angst. We need our “smooth leaves” to soak up the sunshine and the joy. We need to be open to the wonder of the words, and the growth of our characters.
One Surprising Detail…
There’s one final detail about holly that made me laugh. Pruning triggers the same response as being eaten.
Read that again.
The tree literally cannot tell the difference between a hungry deer and an avid gardener. Both result in more spikes.
If that isn’t symbolic of the writing life on a bad day, I don’t know what is.
A developmental edit arrives…some spikes. A critique group meeting ends with you carrying redlined pages… more spikes. Someone says, “I have just a few notes”…and we might feel a bit stabby.
Writers spend years trying to determine whether feedback is helping them grow or merely helping them develop defensive systems.
Sometimes it’s hard to tell what’s truly helpful.
Holly Offers One Final (Fairly Profound) Lesson.
The plant never forgets its original blueprint. Beneath every prickly leaf is the same DNA that created the smooth one. The spikes aren’t the plant. They’re just a response.
And maybe that’s true for writers too.
Beneath the rejection letters, revision scars, imposter syndrome, conference critiques, Amazon reviews, and emotional support chocolate…the original blueprint is still there. We still have our curiosity. Our creativity. Our joy.
We still have the reason we started writing in the first place.
The goal isn’t to become permanently prickly. The goal is to remain true to ourselves, while changing only what’s useful. As writers, we must learn when it’s necessary to grow spikes, and when it’s vital to stay smooth. Most of all, we need places like this where we can hang out with other writers.
Even if this writing life has made us a little pointier or more prickly than we used to be, we know we’re in excellent company. Great writing spaces, like Writers Helping Writers, offer us a place where our leaves can be smooth.
