I Quit Being a Real Writer so I Could Write
My writing swings, a pendulum sweeping between wonder and despair—often in the same paragraph, often in the same reading. One day, I’m gossiping with Muses. The next, I’m searching word mines for veins of grace and finding only F-bombs.
Learning any process is a journey, and the journey of writing is work. The journey of becoming anything takes a commitment of years. It’s rowing against strong currents toward a place forever just beyond the fog. Row, I did, but my confidence in reaching Real Writer bottomed out not long into the effort. When asked about my employment, I might let slip the hope—I’m a writer—disguising a grimace for the sting of the inevitable next question:
“What have you published?”
Nothing. Yet. I answer optimistically, my face filling with the heat of low-grade shame.
But then…but then…but then my first novel is accepted for publication. Ah, the Cinderella satisfaction of publishing. That letter, that moment, that proclamation of arrival into the rarefied state of being not only a Real Writer, but highest of the high, an Author. Cue the fanfare! Polish my crown!
My first thought on finding my
dreams made concrete? Well, crap. This isn’t going to change anything.
Some months later, FedEx delivers a box full of my newly-published book. I swear each copy holds the warmth of the press along with the fragrance of fresh ink on new paper. My first thought on finding my dreams made concrete? Well, crap. This isn’t going to change anything. My novel, Five Mile House, did change perceptions. I had become a Real Writer, but not to myself. Only to others. I still rowed against the same resistant currents through the same fog—now as an imposter.
Three more novels and a bout with cancer later, I’m caught in paradox. The Real Writer idea exhausts me, yet not writing is unthinkable. Writing is how I breathe. A new goal arises: find the meaning in the process. Instead of agents, I seek out community of like-minded souls, each of us struggling against currents of self-doubt, all of us writing anyway. But why? Do we need that self-questioning fight as any moth or butterfly needs to fight its way out of the cocoon to gain strength enough to take to the air?
The meaning of self-doubt finally grows clear: to become is to reach a feeling not a place. Doubt is telling me I’m going the wrong way. I start then to trust my sense of direction. I turn back, rowing away from Real Writer—a term I don’t even understand—and rowing toward the feeling from which I started—Just Someone Who Writes. I row with the currents of uncertainty, not knowing what I will find. The fog lifts. I find I’ve returned home, if I ever left. This is my beginner self and here, I start writing for real.
Writing Exercise
Examine and question your real motives for writing. If you could never publish, would you still write? What do you want from publishing that you cannot give yourself now? Competition? Approval? Fame? Cover art? What impact do you feel these aspirations may have on your work?
Photo: Aaron Burden via Unsplash