I’ve been thinking about labels lately. How one gets one and whether they deserve to have it. Specifically, I’ve been thinking about the label of Writer and whether it applies to me.
Most readers of this blog know that I write, though it’s not something I’m pursuing professionally for now. For now. Maybe someday. It’s the “maybe” that makes me hide from the label Writer.
Aren’t Real Writers supposed to seek publication?
I have an MFA in creative nonfiction, and this tends to come up a lot when I’m at conferences or do interviews for blogs. I’m an agent and I have an MFA and “do you still write?” is the question I always get. My answer is usually self-deprecating, or when I’m feeling confident, I say something like, “Yeah, kind of.”
My nonfiction of late has been this blog and few stray pieces I’ve never submitted. I’ve instead completed a draft of a YA novel, and have two more YA projects that aren’t even half-finished. Writing is important to me. I care about the characters I create and I know I created them for a reason. Sometimes I need to write. I think about writing more than I talk about it, and I talk about it more than I do it. All of my projects remain unfinished.
Aren’t Real Writers supposed to finish at least one thing even if it kills them?
There’s always something to blame.
I’m an agent and my clients come first. Then requested material and queries come first. Then going to conferences and networking events and being so exhausted all the time comes first. Then reading for pleasure comes first because it’s rare I get the opportunity to do so. Then Twitter comes first and “keeping up with industry news” that quickly turns into who else watched Supernatural last night. Then having a social life and maintaining friendships comes first. Then eating and sleeping and just being quiet comes first.
Writing isn’t something I’ve made a priority. Part of that is because I know I’m not on a deadline. I’m not a Real Writer. I’m not published, nor am I really trying to be yet. My career is my focus, and writing will be second to that.
Aren’t Real Writers supposed to put writing ahead of everything else?
My professional and personal life is surrounded by Real Writers. I’ve sat listening to them talk about their process and how torturous it all is. I’ve read tweet upon tweet, countless blog posts, on how hard writing is. Beautiful, poetic posts that make me believe that whoever could talk about writing in such a way must be a Real Writer. Not someone like me. Certainly never someone like me, who wouldn’t be able to wax poetic about anything with a straight face, let alone the writerly mindset. If only I were a damaged soul who needed a creative outlet because my own mind simply cannot contain the multitudes of my depth.
But no. A Real Writer is someone else. Not someone like me who has never viewed writing as something set on destroying my very essence. For me, writing is just a thing I do.
I write or I don’t write. When I do, it is hard and I push myself when it gets harder. Then I stop. Sometimes I don’t pick up my pen again (yes, a pen) for weeks. When I reach a point of transcribing to my laptop, I usually get struck by a fresh wave of inspiration and type for hours. Then I stop.
Aren’t Real Writers more prolific than that?
I’ve joined writer’s groups, rented houses for self-imposed writing retreats, studied my craft, and found my voice. I did all the things Real Writers do. I read all the things Real Writers read. I appreciate the same words that Real Writers connect with. Yet all I feel is distance between myself and Them.
I’m a writer because I write, but I don’t know if I’ll ever consider myself as a Real Writer. As I think more about labels, I’m beginning to think it doesn’t matter. I never took myself seriously as a writer because I thought being a Real Writer was more serious than it is. But if I’m always the one to mock my own creativity, why should I expect anyone else to take me seriously?
My goal is to embrace that writing is a part of me too, even if it’s a part I buried for a while. 2013 was supposed to be the year I “got back into writing,” a promise I’d been breaking since I received my MFA in 2008. The difference this year was that I did finish that novel; I did start writing again and treat it as more than just “something I used to do.”
Maybe 2014 will be the year I stop caring whether I measure up to Real Writers’ standards – or at least what I imagine their standards for Real Writing are. Maybe only then will I let myself believe I, too, am one of Them.
Tell me, fellow writers – was there a moment where you realized you’re a Real Writer? Or do you also run from the label?