3 posts tagged “writing”

"Self-pity is a psychological state of mind of an individual in perceived adverse situations who has not accepted the situation and does not have the confidence nor ability to cope with it. It is characterized by a person's belief that he or she is the victim of events and is therefore deserving of condolence."

"Why are you in health-care?  Don't you have a degree in... English?"  And suddenly I'm back in that exhausting old conversation about my intentions, and as I pick at the unfinished and intensely rich mizithra-stifled pasta, I wonder how long it will take people to forget that I am a unsatisfied product of the arts and begin classify me as a disgruntled working-class schmuck like the rest of 'em. 
"If you don't like it, what do you want to do?"  This is where I will bite myself in the ass.  I can see it coming: the food is good, the company better, and I suppose I'm feeling a bit self-indulgent.  I will tell them, and I will have to listen to what follows.  I give brief pause to consider whether to cop out with a nonchalant shrug and light-hearted self-mockery, or initiate the inevitable.  I've noticed that this red wine isn't very aromatic, and does nothing on my tongue.  I should just drink water.  I should have brought a better vintage for this birthday celebration.  I should keep my damn mouth shut.
"I want to write," I say. In vino veritas, eh?  I swallow the rest of my pour.  "I just want to write all day, and get paid for it."  Stupid.
"You should!"  Smiles and encouragement.  I am gracious.  They will not accept this answer easily enough.
And there it is.  They all treat it the same: like it's that easy, like to simply write is to succeed and to pay the rent and nothing further is required thank you very much, so it is probably that I am not be making the effort.  You could get published, they say.  Or be a journalist.  Do something to get there.
I do write.  On this I am firm, and they are again interested.  I silently kick myself for not quietly letting it go, but they need to see how difficult it is.  Short stories, I admit, blushing.  Poetry.  Mostly non-fiction, but not memoir, not yet.  I write, I tell them, and it is nice to talk about it.  I write, and I enjoy it.  But then, I'm still in health care.
Surely then someone will ask why I don't teach, to at least be doing something I'm good at.  Not being an English teacher is usually hard to understand.  What else can I make use of this knowledge with?  Why bother if you aren't teaching?  With this group we pass that hurdle swiftly and humorously, and I don't get defensive; they all accept that teaching is often more bull-shit than we'd like to admit.  Not that I haven't considered it, particularly when the odor of the elderly gets to me.
This time I am not met with the agonizing (uninvited) career guidance.  We talk about instant literary successes, and languid poets.  From the head of the table, one looks at me jovially and suggests- no, proclaims- "You really need to join a writers' association."  He points out all of the known writers who were in them, even here in Fresno, and the things they did in the meantime to eat while the wrote their way to success.
This is a new thought.
I do miss the community of writers, I admit.  It is the only thing I miss about school.
Sure, he says, there are a few.  Do it.  You need to.  I will help you find one.  He is persistent.  I can't disagree that this isn't a bad idea.  But I'd still be in health care.
As I roll it over in my head, it starts to sour.  An association.  I think what I miss is the self-tortured bleeding hearts.  Yes, the self-important, the ever-hungry atmosphere, where we would come together in our common struggle and constructive criticism.  Only writers understand writers.  It was a safe place.  An association means business, not empathy.
But that was academia, says his wife.  Academia is a bubble, says his wife.  You can't live in Academia.  You need to know where to get published, what people are writing about.  You need to network.  Get out there with your writing and earn your pay.  That community will accept your writing, too.
I immediately bristle.  We are on to dessert by now, following a dissonant birthday serenade.  My spoon swirls thoughtfully around my ice cream as I figure out how to react.  She's right.  I know this.  But I want to argue.  These people are authors!  Poets!  Scholars that have assisted in the blossoming of writing minds!  They have volumes and volumes of published works!  This community is good enough for me!
The lump in my throat is sudden and hard and needs immediate spumoni attention.  It occurs to me how badly I miss Academia, with it's never-ending support and selfless lack of competition.  I miss when writing was writing, and being published was a pipe dream or a reality, not a necessity.  I miss thinking that it would magically happen my way.  I miss beer with first-name-only mentors over non-fiction, or liquor if we were waxing poetic, and the unabashed sharing of even the most self-indulgent pieces.  I've forgotten how much writing there really was.  I have especially forgotten the bitter aftertaste it left in my mouth from it's lack of reality, it's cushy pillow for our broke and artistic asses that opulently hid the ground of hard work.  And it rushes back lustfully, flushing my face with desire.  It becomes clear that these people think more realistically than I do, and that I have been conditioned to think too romantically, and that I am in no real predicament.  Doing little more than I am already doing, I could be more involved in the writers' community in the stark and cutting world.  I do not share this aloud.
I agree that joining a writers' association would be beneficial, I'd like to know the names of some here locally.  I do need to network, yes, I need to make the effort to be published if I really do want to be a writer full-time.  That was my answer, right?  I want to write?  Dinner is over and we stand to leave.  I really think you should, he says again.
Here I am in Corporate America, filing and billing and signing by the X.  Knowing that business is first, even with writing.  Feeling self-pity.  Refusing to exit or re-enter my bubble, and dreading that even in writing, I must work. 
So soon I will join a writers' association, print business cards, and submit writing samples.  I will fail, I will write more, I will do it again until something happens from it all.  Because I want write, and only write.  Because I am earning good money already, and can write regardless of occupation.  Because self-pity has been nipped in the bud.  Because Academia is a distant mirage, and I am standing at the edge of the map, facing dragons.

     Yesterday, I saw my former poetry professor at a wedding.  He seemed thrilled to see me, and the first question he asked was "Are you still writing?"  I said yes, though it is certain that I am not writing in the same way that I used to.  He said he clearly remembers my poetry, and although I never considered myself much of a poet, (at least, not compared to my former roommate who was also in that class and dripped poetry from her pores,) he went on to say that I had been intuitive, exquisite, and other such adjectives.  He said that I had "it", and that I was "right there" with my writing.  I was embarrassed and flattered. He introduced me to his wife as a poet.  I told him about what I am doing for a living, and he said that he feels that the reconciliation of what I love to do and what pays the rent is close at hand.  We had a great brief conversation, and he told me that whenever I wanted to come on by his office to talk about writing or whatever, I was welcome.
     I am upset by this encounter.  I feel inspired to write just by talking to him, like his class always made me feel.  The feeling that I should begin to play around with poetry again and even start reading about writing again (damn you, Annie Dillard!) is starting to creep back up.  I also feel like I have been neglecting my writing, and it makes me ache.  He thought I was a worthwhile writer.  If he's right, then what am I doing with my life?  Letting my talents fade away?  I did it with music, why not do it with writing?  Because I need to pay rent, I suppose, and writing doesn't pay the bills.  Teaching pays the bills for most writers.  I certainly don't miss school one bit, but I am beginning to realize how much I miss the writing community and the opportunity to get feedback and develop my writing.  The only solution I can think of is attempting to get into the MFA program at Fresno State, and the though of going back to school and ending up teaching agitates me.  Mostly, it confuses me.
     So, I guess I'll go on pretending to be a writer while I work in jobs that I loathe.  Now that's the life.

It occurs to me that I spend a good deal of free time composing blogs.  I am prompted to question why-- am I writing for myself?  Is it entirely for the pure joy of language and composition, the satisfaction of seeing my ideas take a permanent form?  Do I make the effort to write becuase it is fulfilling and enjoyable?  Possibly.  But, it is unlikely that these conclusions are completely true. This is, say, 90% of the reason I blog.  The other 10% is because I know someone will read it, and I am an exhibitionist.  I like people to see a little bit into who I am, and that I can create a persona here on this Internet.  I also want to know that what I am saying is being read and considered, even if it is then tossed aside.  I don't care what you make of my words, or if they flee your mind immediately afterward.  I just want to be read.  Because I am a writer, and this is what we writers like to happen.

It then occurs to me that I have approximately 2.5 readers.  I am a Vox noob, so this is reasonably understandable.  I have two subscribers, and I am assigning that 0.5 to that occasional browsing stranger who will come across me in passing.  Hello Invisible Stranger.  This is okay, but that leaves 7.5% of my blogging satisfaction unfulfilled.  No girl wants get only get 92.5% of the way satisfied.

What, then, can be done to obtain 100% satisfaction from my Vox blog?  I consider passing out my URL to family and friends, but this feels like cheating.  They would feel obligated to read, and I would feel obligated to censor, hence, defeating the mother-fucking purpose of writing at all, (see how fun uncensored is?)  My two subscribers will likely continue to read, because they probably are notified when I update.  What is left is the 0.5 Invisible Reader.  Hello, again, Invisible Stranger.  I must pimp myself out to the occasional hapenstance reader.

Invisible Stranger, please continue to read my blog.  There are many reasons why you should.  First of all, I am pretty cool.  I like and notice unusual things, and will feel far more compelled to write about these Unusual Things if I know that Strangers are reading about them.  My writing will improve (I may even throw in some original fiction) and you will get a minute or two of entertainment on your way to your original destination.  Secondly, I will get off on knowing that you have read me (please read blog/please leave occasional comment) and you will have the self-satisfaction knowing that only you can make me cream my pants so.  And lastly, I am asking you very kindly to read my blog.

Please read my blog.