So I want to be a writer.
If you're here, you probably already know that because I force you to read (or at least acknowledge the presence of) my work every 5-7 business days. I've always loved writing but college has made me affirm that love in a technical sense. Declaring myself a creative writing major made it feel more real, I can't just say I love writing, I have to actively pursue opportunities to write.
Yesterday, in my fiction writing class, we heard from a panel of published writers. The event was called "how to pitch" or something of that variety, hosted by the guest writer for the quarter. At first, I thought it was just going to be a bunch of talking about really technical stuff that I didn't care about––structures of emails, or something. I know that marketing and actually getting your work read is a part of the industry, but I'd much rather talk about the craft of writing. I guess most people feel that way.
I went anyway, though, because I like my writing class and I know I'm not above the shitty things you have to do to get to a workable place.
The event was interesting and the writers were cooler than I thought they'd be (my apologies for my pre-conceived notions about the English Department events)––they'd been published in places like the New York Times and the Washington Post. One of them also made a film about a man who died having sex with a horse. I watched like 45 minutes of the movie after class, it got kinda heavy, though. The point is, these writers had made it. They do the kind of work writers dream about doing and reminded me that writing can actually be impactful in the real world. I sat in the front row and tried not to check my phone, even though it buzzed more during that class than the rest of my life combined.
So now here I am, one day post-event, frazzled.
One of the writers told us a story about when she was first starting in the industry. She flew out to DC with an idea and a couple connections and spent her day at the Washington Post headquarters. Throughout her day, she had one set meeting, but she snuck around in the shadows, making excuses to meet people and leave her business card on the tables while she moved past. She'd point to one thing over here, darting into some forbidden office, or happen to bump into somebody important on her way out the door. She probably overstayed her welcome by a couple of hours.
That story scared me. Yeah, it was sort of funny, a writer with a loud laugh and a mane of curly hair darting around corners and dodging security for a shot of publishing one article, funny. But this story embodies all the things I am not.
I can't imagine myself booking a plane and pestering industry people in a city I don't know with no reason to be there other than my own will to succeed. This afternoon, I struggled to craft an email to my professor asking him to meet for office hours. I didn't want the email to be too forceful:
"if you don't have time I completely understand, it's nothing urgent"
(what is this?? I gave him so many opportunities to say no, why do I do this??)
My point is, directness is not my strong suit.
The writers continued on.
I always talk about how much I love writing. How fulfilling it is to be a writer and how there's nothing in the world I want to do but spend my days working on my craft. Even when I'm writing something dumb or I feel a story just getting worse and worse with each word I force onto the page, my failures make me happy to be a writer. It's all part of the process.
These writers––these published, esteemed, actually doing something writers––were not like that. Rather than being in love with their craft, they were consumed by it. Another writer remembered fondly when she was younger in the Peace Core with no responsibilities. She said that she used to be able to read all day in a hammock...and then she came home. With crazy Seattle bills, she said writers have to balance "keep the lights on" work with the work they actually want to do. She turned her "businesswoman" persona on and let that rule her career for a while. If I have a businesswoman side, I don't want to meet her. Even then, the work you want to do is still somehow grueling and most of the time you do it without ever knowing if somebody's going to pay you.
One of the panelists said that if we really wanted this, like really wanted it, we'd have to stop watching TV and going out with friends and wasting time on our phones and just write.
I love writing, but I also love my friends and movies and sometimes doing nothing at all.
Another panelist flat out said he hates writing. He said if someone would pay him just to read all day he would do that instead. The work, he explained, behind a single piece was so strenuous that there was no way for him to find it "fun".
Other than his horse fucker movie, he also works for the Stranger and comes up on Google as a director and writer when you search his name. When you Google my name you get pictures of Irish men leaving the old country and a comprehensive explanation of what life as an ex-pat is like.
My point, I suppose, is that real writers don't love writing––they're haunted by it.
The advice wasn't bad, it served as a wake-up call more than anything else. The reason it hit so hard was that these are people I respect. If I felt like their work wasn't valid (if they weren't published or seemed overly confident), I'd be able to dismiss it. But these are real writers. In the back of my mind, I want to be like them. I want to have these accolades or at least have a body of work behind me that validates a risky career choice.
After I got my internship, I felt like I was getting my foot in the door. Yeah, it pays minimum wage and yeah it's in marketing, but I like getting to say that I get paid to write. By the technical definition, I am a writer.
The writers on the panel, though, did more to get where they are than take the jobs given to them. They fought for their art. The fourth writer, a poet, worked for months for a poem to be embroidered and presented as a physical piece on a canvas, like art. She followed and waited through an entire court case just for the sake of her work. These writers do more than lock themselves away and perfect their stories. Their lives are busy and complicated and filled with work that distracts from this higher goal of writing.
I don't know exactly why I wrote this. I do know that I've been looking at MFA programs for the last day and a half with only reach schools on my list because I don't really feel qualified for any of them. My writing resume is a couple bullets long and mostly work I did for the enjoyment of doing it––not to build any sort of credibility in the writing world. I can't stop thinking about real writers and my professors––who studied at Brown and NYU and were published by the time they were twenty. I guess all of this just to say it's not as simple as it looks.
I'm returning to this post with a little bit of distance (and a looonnng meeting with my writing professor under my belt), not necessarily with any clarity, but at least a little bit of reflection.
First of all, if anyone in college or high school has made it this far, lean on your professors and teachers. I was so hesitant to even reach out because I hate the idea of imposing myself on an already overworked adult but truly they are there to help us. Eventually, I got over it, sent the stupid email and set up a meeting for Tuesday before class.
Without much of an idea of what I was going to say (other than "im stressed, pls help), I knew I just needed someone to process with. We worked our way through the presentation, bullet by bullet.
The most intense writer on the panel, my professor pointed out, is a freelance writer. Her world by nature is fast-paced and unpredictable. Freelancing is risk after risk after risk, and some people love that. Though she is a brilliant and talented writer, I am nothing like her. Our skill sets (other than writing, I hope) are completely different. Maybe I wouldn't be able to handle the world of freelancing, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't be a writer.
The panel was comprised of all different kinds of writers. Just like being an artist or a poet or a dancer, there isn't one linear path to reach success. In fact, I don't know if my vision of success is the same as the writers on the panel. In truth, I would be happy to be relatively unknown outside of whichever city or town I wind up in. As long as I get to be apart of a community of writers and share my work with them, I'll be happy. I might never end up in the New York Times or the Washington Post, but if somebody can find value in my work, I'll be content.
Of course, I wouldn't say no to this kind of work (I'd be thrilled, in fact) but I won't spend my life working toward these famous publications. My life will be full and beautiful and fulfilling without the New York Times knowing my name, I can't say the same of my life without writing.
On the issue of MFAs, we talked about risk. I told my professor that I was so worried about letting other people down. I've been rejected before and I will be rejected again––that's okay, that's part of life. Although damaging to my ego, I won't stop writing because somebody told me they didn't like it. I've been affirmed enough by the people around me (if you're reading this, thank you lol) to know that my work is worth existing in the world. I won't lie, getting rejected from MFAs would sting but life moves on. I hate, however, the idea of making my professors and mentors advocate on my behalf just for me to get rejected from ten different programs. It almost feels irresponsible to me.
One of the worst parts of the MFA application process is it's almost all about the sample of your work. I know that should make me happy (it's not like my grades or experience are doing me any favors), but that is so much pressure. I can't blame my lacking GPA or access to internships, I have to accept that my writing didn't connect with the readers this time. Writing is such a personal process, I don't expect all of my pieces (or any of them, really) to connect with every person who reads them. I can't imagine myself in the top 1% of writers to anybody––everyone's work is so uniquely valuable, how do you quantify that?
I asked my professor how I could know my work has enough value to even apply. Maybe, in my head, I was hoping for "you're a great writer, they'll love you" but that's not what I needed to hear. Instead, he told me that if I wanted to be a writer in any capacity, I was going to take this kind of risk in some way. It might not be as direct, but I will do it at some point. Every writer does. I don't have to apply for MFAs, it's not a rule. It's a choice I have to make for myself, there's no objective good or bad, really.
He explained that we all imposters in some way. Nobody's good at anything until they do it over and over and over again. There's no track these "good" writers are on that I don't have access to and no reason I can't reach their level of success. I knew creative writing was a good fit for me by the way the professors talk, I've never had a meeting where an English professor missed a chance to say something poetic or tragically beautiful.
He said that it was fine if, for now, I just wanted enough money for an apartment and a drink after work. I don't have to take that kind of risk right now. Writing (and most careers) is about checking in with yourself constantly. It won't be too late to apply in a year, two years, or even a decade from now, my writing will still be there for me when I'm ready.
This is all so scary for me. I've spent most of my life relying on extrinsic and measurable proof of my value. I look at my grades, my resume, what my peers and teachers say about me. I'm not necessarily afraid of risk, but I have a hard time trusting my instincts and the quality of my work with no guiding force. Putting my work out there is such a declaration of confidence, one I haven't really had to take up to this point in my life.
It's even more terrifying that this might all end in heartbreak for me. I talk myself into taking this huge leap, gather my resume, my letters of recommendation, my best samples of writing. I make up my mind to trust the quality of my work. I tell my friends and family that I'm on this journey to become a writer. And then I get 10-15 letters explaining that "this isn't a reflection of your work" (yes it is, it's fine, you didn't like it) and that "there were a high number of qualified applicants" (and I was worse than many of them and thus will not be allowed to attend your program). Then I'll have to pick myself up and figure something else out.
The life of a writer, I guess.
If you're here, you probably already know that because I force you to read (or at least acknowledge the presence of) my work every 5-7 business days. I've always loved writing but college has made me affirm that love in a technical sense. Declaring myself a creative writing major made it feel more real, I can't just say I love writing, I have to actively pursue opportunities to write.
Yesterday, in my fiction writing class, we heard from a panel of published writers. The event was called "how to pitch" or something of that variety, hosted by the guest writer for the quarter. At first, I thought it was just going to be a bunch of talking about really technical stuff that I didn't care about––structures of emails, or something. I know that marketing and actually getting your work read is a part of the industry, but I'd much rather talk about the craft of writing. I guess most people feel that way.
I went anyway, though, because I like my writing class and I know I'm not above the shitty things you have to do to get to a workable place.
The event was interesting and the writers were cooler than I thought they'd be (my apologies for my pre-conceived notions about the English Department events)––they'd been published in places like the New York Times and the Washington Post. One of them also made a film about a man who died having sex with a horse. I watched like 45 minutes of the movie after class, it got kinda heavy, though. The point is, these writers had made it. They do the kind of work writers dream about doing and reminded me that writing can actually be impactful in the real world. I sat in the front row and tried not to check my phone, even though it buzzed more during that class than the rest of my life combined.
So now here I am, one day post-event, frazzled.
One of the writers told us a story about when she was first starting in the industry. She flew out to DC with an idea and a couple connections and spent her day at the Washington Post headquarters. Throughout her day, she had one set meeting, but she snuck around in the shadows, making excuses to meet people and leave her business card on the tables while she moved past. She'd point to one thing over here, darting into some forbidden office, or happen to bump into somebody important on her way out the door. She probably overstayed her welcome by a couple of hours.
That story scared me. Yeah, it was sort of funny, a writer with a loud laugh and a mane of curly hair darting around corners and dodging security for a shot of publishing one article, funny. But this story embodies all the things I am not.
I can't imagine myself booking a plane and pestering industry people in a city I don't know with no reason to be there other than my own will to succeed. This afternoon, I struggled to craft an email to my professor asking him to meet for office hours. I didn't want the email to be too forceful:
"if you don't have time I completely understand, it's nothing urgent"
(what is this?? I gave him so many opportunities to say no, why do I do this??)
My point is, directness is not my strong suit.
The writers continued on.
I always talk about how much I love writing. How fulfilling it is to be a writer and how there's nothing in the world I want to do but spend my days working on my craft. Even when I'm writing something dumb or I feel a story just getting worse and worse with each word I force onto the page, my failures make me happy to be a writer. It's all part of the process.
These writers––these published, esteemed, actually doing something writers––were not like that. Rather than being in love with their craft, they were consumed by it. Another writer remembered fondly when she was younger in the Peace Core with no responsibilities. She said that she used to be able to read all day in a hammock...and then she came home. With crazy Seattle bills, she said writers have to balance "keep the lights on" work with the work they actually want to do. She turned her "businesswoman" persona on and let that rule her career for a while. If I have a businesswoman side, I don't want to meet her. Even then, the work you want to do is still somehow grueling and most of the time you do it without ever knowing if somebody's going to pay you.
One of the panelists said that if we really wanted this, like really wanted it, we'd have to stop watching TV and going out with friends and wasting time on our phones and just write.
I love writing, but I also love my friends and movies and sometimes doing nothing at all.
Another panelist flat out said he hates writing. He said if someone would pay him just to read all day he would do that instead. The work, he explained, behind a single piece was so strenuous that there was no way for him to find it "fun".
Other than his horse fucker movie, he also works for the Stranger and comes up on Google as a director and writer when you search his name. When you Google my name you get pictures of Irish men leaving the old country and a comprehensive explanation of what life as an ex-pat is like.
My point, I suppose, is that real writers don't love writing––they're haunted by it.
The advice wasn't bad, it served as a wake-up call more than anything else. The reason it hit so hard was that these are people I respect. If I felt like their work wasn't valid (if they weren't published or seemed overly confident), I'd be able to dismiss it. But these are real writers. In the back of my mind, I want to be like them. I want to have these accolades or at least have a body of work behind me that validates a risky career choice.
After I got my internship, I felt like I was getting my foot in the door. Yeah, it pays minimum wage and yeah it's in marketing, but I like getting to say that I get paid to write. By the technical definition, I am a writer.
The writers on the panel, though, did more to get where they are than take the jobs given to them. They fought for their art. The fourth writer, a poet, worked for months for a poem to be embroidered and presented as a physical piece on a canvas, like art. She followed and waited through an entire court case just for the sake of her work. These writers do more than lock themselves away and perfect their stories. Their lives are busy and complicated and filled with work that distracts from this higher goal of writing.
I don't know exactly why I wrote this. I do know that I've been looking at MFA programs for the last day and a half with only reach schools on my list because I don't really feel qualified for any of them. My writing resume is a couple bullets long and mostly work I did for the enjoyment of doing it––not to build any sort of credibility in the writing world. I can't stop thinking about real writers and my professors––who studied at Brown and NYU and were published by the time they were twenty. I guess all of this just to say it's not as simple as it looks.
I'm returning to this post with a little bit of distance (and a looonnng meeting with my writing professor under my belt), not necessarily with any clarity, but at least a little bit of reflection.
First of all, if anyone in college or high school has made it this far, lean on your professors and teachers. I was so hesitant to even reach out because I hate the idea of imposing myself on an already overworked adult but truly they are there to help us. Eventually, I got over it, sent the stupid email and set up a meeting for Tuesday before class.
Without much of an idea of what I was going to say (other than "im stressed, pls help), I knew I just needed someone to process with. We worked our way through the presentation, bullet by bullet.
The most intense writer on the panel, my professor pointed out, is a freelance writer. Her world by nature is fast-paced and unpredictable. Freelancing is risk after risk after risk, and some people love that. Though she is a brilliant and talented writer, I am nothing like her. Our skill sets (other than writing, I hope) are completely different. Maybe I wouldn't be able to handle the world of freelancing, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't be a writer.
The panel was comprised of all different kinds of writers. Just like being an artist or a poet or a dancer, there isn't one linear path to reach success. In fact, I don't know if my vision of success is the same as the writers on the panel. In truth, I would be happy to be relatively unknown outside of whichever city or town I wind up in. As long as I get to be apart of a community of writers and share my work with them, I'll be happy. I might never end up in the New York Times or the Washington Post, but if somebody can find value in my work, I'll be content.
Of course, I wouldn't say no to this kind of work (I'd be thrilled, in fact) but I won't spend my life working toward these famous publications. My life will be full and beautiful and fulfilling without the New York Times knowing my name, I can't say the same of my life without writing.
On the issue of MFAs, we talked about risk. I told my professor that I was so worried about letting other people down. I've been rejected before and I will be rejected again––that's okay, that's part of life. Although damaging to my ego, I won't stop writing because somebody told me they didn't like it. I've been affirmed enough by the people around me (if you're reading this, thank you lol) to know that my work is worth existing in the world. I won't lie, getting rejected from MFAs would sting but life moves on. I hate, however, the idea of making my professors and mentors advocate on my behalf just for me to get rejected from ten different programs. It almost feels irresponsible to me.
One of the worst parts of the MFA application process is it's almost all about the sample of your work. I know that should make me happy (it's not like my grades or experience are doing me any favors), but that is so much pressure. I can't blame my lacking GPA or access to internships, I have to accept that my writing didn't connect with the readers this time. Writing is such a personal process, I don't expect all of my pieces (or any of them, really) to connect with every person who reads them. I can't imagine myself in the top 1% of writers to anybody––everyone's work is so uniquely valuable, how do you quantify that?
I asked my professor how I could know my work has enough value to even apply. Maybe, in my head, I was hoping for "you're a great writer, they'll love you" but that's not what I needed to hear. Instead, he told me that if I wanted to be a writer in any capacity, I was going to take this kind of risk in some way. It might not be as direct, but I will do it at some point. Every writer does. I don't have to apply for MFAs, it's not a rule. It's a choice I have to make for myself, there's no objective good or bad, really.
He explained that we all imposters in some way. Nobody's good at anything until they do it over and over and over again. There's no track these "good" writers are on that I don't have access to and no reason I can't reach their level of success. I knew creative writing was a good fit for me by the way the professors talk, I've never had a meeting where an English professor missed a chance to say something poetic or tragically beautiful.
He said that it was fine if, for now, I just wanted enough money for an apartment and a drink after work. I don't have to take that kind of risk right now. Writing (and most careers) is about checking in with yourself constantly. It won't be too late to apply in a year, two years, or even a decade from now, my writing will still be there for me when I'm ready.
This is all so scary for me. I've spent most of my life relying on extrinsic and measurable proof of my value. I look at my grades, my resume, what my peers and teachers say about me. I'm not necessarily afraid of risk, but I have a hard time trusting my instincts and the quality of my work with no guiding force. Putting my work out there is such a declaration of confidence, one I haven't really had to take up to this point in my life.
It's even more terrifying that this might all end in heartbreak for me. I talk myself into taking this huge leap, gather my resume, my letters of recommendation, my best samples of writing. I make up my mind to trust the quality of my work. I tell my friends and family that I'm on this journey to become a writer. And then I get 10-15 letters explaining that "this isn't a reflection of your work" (yes it is, it's fine, you didn't like it) and that "there were a high number of qualified applicants" (and I was worse than many of them and thus will not be allowed to attend your program). Then I'll have to pick myself up and figure something else out.
The life of a writer, I guess.
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