“This is the year I become a writer.”
Since the start of 2024, it’s become a mantra, battle cry, reassurance; when work feels unstable, or I’m frustrated with some other detail of my life: “Whatever, fuck it; that doesn’t matter. This is the year I become a writer.”
I began to write as soon as I learned how to string letters into words into sentences: poetry, short stories, film scripts showcasing the questionable talents of our four family cats. I wrote my way into and then through high school, opting to turn in a paper on the ethics of dissecting frogs for science rather than perform the experiment myself (much to, I think, my biology teacher’s chagrin.) My guidance counselor warned me that I wouldn’t get into college unless I took more math classes; instead, I wrote and eventually earned my degree in creative writing, and began writing professionally before I graduated. Writing’s what paid for my headshots and acting classes. It’s what eventually got me my first (and only) nine-to-five at a marketing agency, and it’s what allowed me to leave that job to freelance and then start my own company. Regardless of anything else happening in my life, I’ve always been a writer. And yet, for some unsound reason, I still feel as though I haven’t earned the title.
The topic came up a few months ago at a coffee date with a new friend who is also working on a first novel while writing for work. We talked a lot about how we compare ourselves to others; how we each have peers whose careers we envy for no reason other than the fact that they appear more “writerly” than we do, if only to ourselves.
“It’s ridiculous,” we concluded, bolstered by caffeine and the electric jolt of a common passion. “We’re real writers.” We moved on, and any eavesdropper would have presumed the conversation laid to rest. But I’ve been continuing it on my own, in my head, ever since.
This is the year I become a writer. So then, what was I before? Haven’t I always been? How will I know I am? Why am I like this?
Of course, this can be read as textbook imposter syndrome. People (especially women) in all professions fall victim to it; blah, blah. I know, I know. But I think, also, there is something strangely common about writing that separates it from other artforms, and that makes it difficult to claim as creative achievement.
If I break out my old acrylics and paint a picture of literally anything, it can arguably be classified as art. (Whether it’s good art or not is a different question entirely.) But if I write, say, some poetic-sounded romance copy for a client’s e-commerce site—is that art? What about a slogan, or a blog post? What about people who compose and send lengthy emails all day—are they writers? Most people write (whether out of desire or necessity) at some point in their daily lives. Conversely, most professional writers perform tasks other than writing as part of their jobs. If you’re a sculptor, you’re a sculptor. But many occupations exist beneath the umbrella category of writer: copywriter, content writer, technical writer, transcriber, creative writer…so then, what is a “real” writer? Is that even a thing that exists outside of my own neurosis-addled brain? After months (okay, years) of internal debate, I’ve concluded that the answer to that is…maybe?
If you google, “what is a real writer?” (yes, I did) it will direct you to not a dictionary definition but a long list of think pieces by everyone from the New Yorker to a woman selling her editing services via therealwriter.com. So, I’m gonna go ahead and say there is no definition and we all get to make our own. Here’s mine: A real writer is someone for whom writing is not just a way to make money, but a way to process and communicate with the world around them. They write because they feel called to do so, not by an outside source (a client, an English teacher, someone asking for written instructions) but by something inside of them. They write because they have to in order to feel sane, and because they love it. And (because this is my interpretation!) they do get paid to write, at least sometimes or a little bit.
So, if I’m already a real writer by my own definition, what makes this year different?
A long time ago, in my previous life, I acted in the West Coast premier of Christie Perfetti Williams’ play, Our Beds Are Crowded. In one of my all-time favorite roles, I played an artist with a day job, frustrated by stagnation. During each performance, I said a line that still echoes somewhere inside of me, often resurfacing when I feel stuck and bored:
“As long as I’m making my art, I’m an artist who works in an office. But if I’m not making my art, then I’m just some girl who staples things for a living.”
My writing can be separated into two categories, then: stapling and art—and for obvious reasons, the stapling usually takes higher priority. But this year, some big things are shifting to allow me to change that balance. I’m excited to give more attention to my art-writing, but also terrified. I’m fully aware that my position is a rare gift, and I feel enormous pressure to take advantage of it before it’s potentially taken away. I don’t know how long this window of opportunity will be available to me, and I’m afraid that I’ll fuck it up. I’m afraid that I’ll fail, yet again, at my creative pursuits and be resigned to a life of stapling (aka replying to customers’ IG stories with a fire emoji) for a living.
I’ll admit that this fear—along with travel and illness, and then more illness—caused me to take a small step back from writing here. My return from Hawaii was met with a brutal bout of jetlag, which morphed into (or exacerbated existing) writer’s block that had me positively clinging to my “this year” mantra. I choked out pages of drivel, desperately trying to recapture the lyrical style I left you all with—but it just wasn’t working. After metaphorically banging my head against a wall for weeks (and making everyone around me a little bit miserable in the process) I abandoned the folder reserved for this newsletter and pivoted to working on my novel draft—where, for whatever reason, things clicked into place. I revised a few chapters and solved an important plot problem, and allowed myself to briefly celebrate before wallowing in the fact that my Substack had gone dormant.
The previously promised two-week break turned into three weeks, and then four. The insecurities I have around this project solidified into a shell and, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t claw or beg or break my way back in. I was stressed and frustrated and a little depressed. And then my son caught strep and I couldn’t write anything worth anything with the PAW Patrol movie blaring in the background and his little voice screaming at me to make an old, lint-covered sticker “be sticky again!” But I could work on the rebrand I’d been mulling over for a while so I did that—because the truth is, HAS-BEEN was always meant to be a placeholder until I settled on a more permanent title—and so here we are. Whew. Welcome to Dramedy.
Do you know about AI influencers? Cool eclipse content. THC chocolate for Palestine. Poems of Parenting, and How To Not Be A Perfectionist. What it’s like to fail at influencing. Some thoughts on taste. A book I recently loved, and a book I want to read. While everyone’s talking about Maggie Rogers, I’m revisiting this old video of her with Pharrell that brings me so much joy. Stocking up on this sunscreen and preemptive dry shampoo to prepare for warmer weather. SSENSE killing it with the memes. A good reason to take a trip to KCMO. How every argument with my husband starts. And in honor of the fact that ‘Love Is Blind’ is filming in Denver (!!): this made me lol.
The tornado vortex of creativity is real 🌪️ I have a similar hang up around the term “writer.” I’ve practiced saying it out loud. “I’m a psychotherapist and writer” to dust off the cobwebs. So glad to see you back 💕
I’ve got both those books on my list. Thank you for directing me to that Maggie Roger’s piece. LIB in Denver!!!