Nicolas Fisher
Guest Writer
Ever since middle school I’ve known I wanted to be a writer. I devoured books, lived inside stories, and began creating my own worlds on the computer screen.
My early writing was rough, as everyone’s is, but I protected it fiercely. I never shared it. Not with friends, teachers, or family. Sharing felt like risking the only part of myself that felt truly special.
High school became my most prolific season. I wrote a 600-page manuscript in a single year and took every creative writing class available. But those courses focused on prompts and softball critiques. I wanted challenge and honest feedback. Yet, I was too afraid to pursue it. Instead, I only shared my pages with a few teachers who felt safe. Their encouragement kept me going when the rest of life felt heavy.
That fear eventually cracked when I finally posted my work online. At first the feedback was warm and supportive. Then one morning, a strangere deleted everything I’d written and suggested I’d never amount to anything as a writer and might as well go kill myself. I was, he said, a dead end; a nobody. It wasn’t criticism – it was sabotage, meant to belittle, intimidate, and silence me. And deep down, I let it get to me.
As a result, I drifted away from writing entirely. In college poured my artistic energies into organizing events and games for my friends, insisting it was still “creative work.” But under that excuse was isolation and fear. I was avoiding writing because I doubted my worth. I sought the easy validation of ideas without the vulnerability of actually writing them down. And when that friend group fell apart – the same loss that eventually led me to MDI – I realized how dependent I’d become on others to feel creative, valuable, or capable.
I was unsure how to rebuild but I was terrified of being seen, of owning my work, of exposing it to more poisonous ridicule, to writing without the buffer of applause. In short: I was terrified of seeking accountability rather than validation.
So a year ago, I remade a commitment I’d failed at before: every month, I would write something – anything – and share it with my MDI team and my mentor. Finished or unfinished, polished or messy, it didn’t matter. I’d get it done, share it, and hear whatever they had to say.
That practice, though terrifying, has nonetheless been exhilarating. Sharing my work with other men, receiving honest feedback, hearing what my writing stirred in them, pushed me in ways I had long avoided. Some feedback lifted me up, some cut deep, but all of it moved me forward.
Which brings me to why I’m writing this now.
I’m taking a stand for men who are committed to learning, growing, and healing through creativity. What pushes me most is standing alongside other men who show their wounds and create anyway.
Yes, I still want validation, who doesn’t? But more important than that is a space where I, along with other men, can share our creative work honestly and receive whatever comes – good or bad – without losing ourselves.
That’s why I’m launching an MDI Writing Team. A place to support each other, challenge each other, and hold each other to the creative lives we’ve said we want.
If my story resonates with you, or if you feel ready to contribute to something like this, I invite you to step in. Offer your thoughts. Share your pages. Bring your courage, however imperfect it feels.
Our first gathering will be:
January 3rd at 8:30pm EST on Zoom
https://us06web.zoom.us/j/81164658909?pwd=ECy7BHU8QvrpL1oPiDokcQEhp2Pdpi.1
I’ll be there to meet you with an open page and a pen. So just write.
See you there!
