A few months ago, a former colleague (he’s since left to work for another employer) at the library made the comment to someone that unless one has been published, one cannot consider oneself a writer.
Although I’m a published writer myself, I found the remark somewhat condescending, not to mention offensive to the person with whom he was conversing. The latter obviously considered herself a writer, although the only thing she’d ever “published” was some essays in the school paper. (That counts, people.) The formula should be simple, non? If you drive, you’re a driver. If you paint, you’re a painter. If you garden, you’re a gardener. If you write, you’re a writer.
Still, I can see where the guy was coming from, even if I don’t agree with his ultimate judgment. In our staunchly anti-intellectual culture, it’s hard enough for people to take you seriously if you’re a published writer, much less an unpublished one. Surprisingly, it’s a bit easier in my small town to “pass” myself as a writer, probably because I’ve been a regular contributor to the local paper and therefore have a “name.” In Dallas, everyone and their dog was an aspiring writer, or had a story in them they were burning to write if only they had the time. Me? I had a few clips from various regional magazines and even a couple of national ones, but most people knew me by my professional identity: energy developer. That was impressive. That got people’s attention (especially landowners wanting to make some money off their square of dirt). That gave me a kind of status that being a writer never did.
So returning to my first love has been a difficult process. While I continue to work at the local library for one day each week, I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m torn between the desire to earn a regular salary, have a real office that I go to every morning, and wear real workday clothes like everyone else, or to continue what I’m doing now: writing a novel with a possible future consisting of a million rejections, working in solitude in my cluttered home office, clad mostly in hoodie tops and yoga pants, and only ever seeing friends when I can tear myself away from the “friends” I’ve created on paper. Sounds like an easy decision? Not if you knew me, the professional worrier and material girl. Sure, B. makes a decent enough salary that we can live comfortably without my having to work full-time. On the other hand, if we ever want to buy a house (and right now sounds like a really good time to do it, too!) — or even if I just want to be able to travel abroad at least once a year — the siren call of the 8-5 straitjacket job sounds awfully alluring.
My best friend J. represents everything inspiring to me. A brilliant mixed media artist, she somehow manages to balance a demanding, full-time professional career as speech therapist with her art. Indeed, she’s exhibited several times over the past few years and is now preparing for her biggest exhibit yet, part of a larger show sponsored by a national arts organization. How she juggle all of that, I’m not sure, but it’s a testament to her focus and discipline that she’s able to channel so much energy into her thought-provoking and very moving work while still being able to put some really serious dough in the bank.
I guess what it comes down to is this: whose vision of my Self do I want to pursue? The one others expect and desire of me (i.e., the professional “success” whom everyone always “knew” would “make it,” with a real car, a real house, a real job, a real life), or my own (i.e., the writer willing to make material and personal sacrifices in order to achieve her dream)? On paper, it sounds so easy — think of all the films where the story revolves around a successful artist who started out as someone no one believed in! — but when the rubber hits the road, sometimes I just long for the comfort of the day job, the salary, the social approval.
There’s a part of me that wonders if perhaps this isn’t really about a search for status or stability but rather a terror that I really do suck as a writer. Why take a chance on something you can fail so miserably in? It’s small comfort to know that almost all writers and artists feel the same way at some point in their lives. When the fear strikes your own heart, it just resonates even more. No matter how many times I’ve been published, or how many editors have praised my work, or even how many times I’ve sat at my laptop after a marathon bout of writing and thought, “Wow, that was pretty good,” more often than not I stare at the mirror and think, Geez, you fake, what makes you think you’re a decent writer? You’re insane if you think you’ll ever write the damn book!
Maybe that’s why I’ve kept this crumpled piece of paper that my former English professor in college slipped into my notebook once. Written in big, cursive handwriting with green ink, Dr. Ireland’s letter unequivocally expressed his awe at my writing and how much he hoped I would continue to pursue it. I cried for days after I received that letter, simultaneously believing and disbelieving it. The fact that I’ve kept it all these years (it must be at least 15 years old now) tells me that a part of me believes in it enough to think that I might actually fulfill his hopes for me someday.
Sigh. See what happens when you decide you want to take a rest? Having all that time on your hands, no deadlines in sight…you start thinking. A lot. No wonder so many people come back from vacation anxious and relieved to be back at work. Who wants to do all that soul-searching when you realize that so much of it involves learning some really uncomfortable things about yourself?
Oh, almost forgot. Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone!
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{ 9 comments }
Who wants to do all that soul-searching when you realize that so much of it involves learning some really uncomfortable things about yourself?
Maybe that’s why I never take a vacation. I might end up loathing myself.
The former colleague is a knucklehead and a true-blue American. Here, and sadly, elsewhere more and more, we can only be defined by our jobs, the entity that pays us, not by our passions. If one, above all other things, loves to tend his or her garden, are they then NOT a gardener because they’re not getting paid by Gardening Weekly, or having a show on The Home and Garden Channel?
If you enjoy writing, and you write, whether you get dollars or Euros or rubles or trinkets or smiles, you’re a goddamn writer. Period.
I think anyone who does anything creative is going to be struck by self-doubt. It’s almost part of the package. I detest most of the things I churn out, and the few pieces that others have seen, I doubt their sincerity. Not them, but it’s almost as if I’m saying “what are YOU seeing that I’m not? This is horrible! It’s so obvious!”
Of course, they never see the really really really bad stuff.
We have to do what makes us happy, whether it’s writing, or crocheting or gardening or fishing or, I don’t know, entering eating contests. We should define ourselves by ourselves, our passions, not whatever we do to pay the bills in the socioeconomic structure we’re stuck in.
And Happy Valentine’s Day to you, too.
Wow, this sounds like me. I have a 8 to 5 job as a writer/editor, but it’s not anything I adore with all my heart. So I do freelance features here and there, and I’d like to start a novel this year, but my self-doubt continually gets in the way. I’d love nothing more than to sit at home and write all day, but I’m too scared to leave a steady paycheck, medical benefits, etc.
I even had a similar thing happen with a college professor. In fact, we’re still in touch, and he always asks me to send him articles when I get something new published.
You know – I’ve read this post a couple times now, and I still need more time to respond! You have no idea how this resonates with me. I do have an interesting job that I love, but at the same time I still find myself constantly thinking about the same question you asked: whose vision of my Self do I want to pursue? Although the visions for me aren’t just others’ vs my own because I haven’t really been able to settle on just one for myself! I may have to think about this some more…
Also, being a writer was always that dream job for me – where other people might dream about being an artist or actor or musician while working their ‘real’ job, I always wish I could write for a living.
It usually goes like this, “hello how are you? Oh I’m fine thank you and you? Good. Good. What are you doing here? Oh nothing. You? Ditto? So what do you do?….”
And so it goes…
Is there ever a conversation starter that doesn’t start with ‘what do you do?’ Is that really going to tell you a lot about me? I certainly hope not. I’d hate to be judged by my job because that is the least most interesting thing about me. And I know you know this Marjorie.
How’s the training?
Colleen – I met some people for the first time this evening and ended up thinking about that very thing – I knew I did NOT want to pull the old ‘so what do you do?’ even though I’m terrible at making conversations and couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I just kept my mouth shut at those times. :/
Dear Randal, well, I made the decision to put off getting a 9-5 for another year while I continue working on my novel, plugging in freelance assignments when I can. My wish is to complete the darn thing by the end of the year — final draft and all — so that I can at last take a long breath.
I suspect that since writing is something that ostensibly “everyone” does (whether it’s an email or a business letter or a book), there’s the belief that one must actually be compensated first before one can consider oneself a “Writer.” That’s BS, of course, but as you said, we’re defined so intimately with our jobs that unless it’s something for which you earn a wage, it’s just a hobby.
Dear brown-eyed grrl, I spent years with exactly that same fear. And it still pops up on occasion when I least expect it. But it’s just one more thing writers have to push through (I don’t think we ever really overcome that fear so much as learn to live in spite of it!) in order to create what it is that we’re burning to write.
I think I read a quote somewhere about how the only person in the world who cares about your writing is you. I would guess that what the person meant when s/he said that was that we should forget about any expectations about our writing and just do it. No one is going to hold their breath waiting for our masterpiece. It has to come from ourselves. You and I are fortunate that we had such awesome teachers who believe in us, but ultimately it’s up to us to just get our ass in the chair and write. It’s something I have to tell myself everyday, especially on those mornings when I think, Gawd, this is awful.
Chere Colleen, oh, I know that intellectually. Bien sur! But it can be hard to remember when you’re staring at 36 and realizing that everyone you graduated college with has their own home, a big chunk of savings, and a hefty retirement plan, while I’m still sitting on IKEA furniture and paying rent on an overpriced condo. (At least I have some retirement.) Peer pressure — even unintended — can be a powerful force.
It’s easy to remember what’s really important on most days, but self-doubt is part and parcel of being a writer. Even the best ones wrestle with it. (James Joyce and E.B. White were notorious for it.) But we plough on. That’s really all a writer can do, after all. I can only imagine all those others who gave up too soon, or who never even got started.
As for the training, well, I’ve had a big health setback that derailed my running for awhile. I’m seeing a naturopath on Wednesday to deal with the issue, as my specialist wants to prescribe some pretty powerful medication that I’ve been avoiding for years. I’m hoping the naturopath will have a better option for me.
In the meantime, I’m looking into joining one of these Team-in-Training-type challenges to give me some structure and a goal to work towards while I do the long-term training for Paris.
How about you?
Dear AS, bonjour! You know, as I mentioned in my post, my best friend J. is able to pursue her art while also holding down a demanding full-time job. Perhaps you can take some baby steps towards your writing dream? One thing that a lot of people recommend (and I heartily endorse) is to take a writing class through your local community college’s continuing ed program. (Don’t go for the semester-long credit classes, which can be too hard to juggle with a job.)
It’ll give you a chance to slowly integrate writing into your schedule by giving you a specific framework around which to work. Plus, you’ll be around a community of like-minded souls who enjoy writing as much as you do and with whom you can glean inspiration and motivation. Just as with exercising, unless you’re extraordinarily self-motivated, it’s always much more fun with a group than without!
If nothing else, you’ll have taken a first step towards fulfilling that dream. I spent years wondering if I should try being a writer, then realized that I really only had two choices: I could either write, or I could not write. The latter was too frightening to contemplate, so now…I write.
I’ve always hated that whole “What do you do?” conversation. The thing is, though, most people I know really do nothing else but their jobs, so most of the time it just makes sense to ask. Otherwise, the discussion goes nowhere pretty quickly.
Salut,
Marjorie
I’m sorry I didn’t get to this post sooner. I’ll be the devil’s advocate here — the security, insurance, buying a house issues are very real!
It’s easy to say “live your dream,” or “follow your heart.” But these are almost platitudes for people like you who obviously have a rational, reflective side.
To me, the introduction to your thought-provoking post gives an answer to your questions: of course, you’ll be a writer even if you have a full-time job and just do a little writing on the side.
I don’t have any easy answers on the self-doubt question, though. It does seem to be especially prevalent among writers — I sometimes wonder why.
Dear Betty, bonjour! Merci for your thoughtful comments. Yes, when I was younger, I could definitely live a much more bohemian life than I do now, but as I get older issues of security and financial stability have begun to figure more prominently in my life. Getting married definitely helped to push me in that direction.
I think artists in general are plagued with self-doubt most of their lives. Since art is so intimately related to one’s interior self, a fear of rejection of one’s art is akin to rejection of one’s self as a person. And since art and commerce are often mutually exclusive, in a world where one’s worth is measured by the value of one’s bank account can lead to some pretty debilitating experiences when one’s art is rejected by the public. That could make anyone go crazy.
For the moment, I’ve made the decision to pursue both a freelance writing career and finish my novel. The former hasn’t been paying a huge chunk of the bills, but lately I’ve been getting more and more assignments, which I think will help in the long run. The question, of course, is whether or not this will ultimately give me more time to write the novel. It’s still the whole art-vs.-commerce dilemma.
Salut,
Marjorie
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