Since I was a kid, there is only one thing I swore I would never be. “A writer?” I would say with the snarling how-dare-you look and tone only an inexperienced kid could muster. “Sure, I’d LOVE to be in a profession that will turn me into a depressed, insane drunk. Who wouldn’t?!”
Because as it turns out I knew everything when I was 12. It’s the only excuse I have for sharing nuggets of wisdom like that with anyone who would listen. Otherwise I was just a bratty kid, and who wants to admit they were an average, bratty kid. Much better to try and convince you I was a child prodigy, right?
Ok, now that we’ve all accepted my childhood genius, I’ll get on with the story.
I’ve avoided becoming a professional writer for years. There was that year I kind of told everyone I was a professional writer. It was true. I wrote a lot and got paid for every assignment. But writing? Only in the strictest sense. It was a marketing gig involving lots of words and keywords and keyword phrases. Plus, as soon as I was able I subcontracted the hell out of the gig so I wouldn’t have to find the hundred and first way to talk about steam.
Still, I didn’t consider myself a real writer, becuase I was being paid and felt that was kind of the antithesis of what being a “real writer” was all about. Also, I thought writers only wrote about what they wanted to write about – you know, their passion – and thus this worky-work I was doing could not possibly be what people were talking about when they talked about writing.
My “not writing” has served me well at work, at home, at networking events, and now for school assignments. I am not a writer, you see, because I’m just fulfilling a requirement while I learn about this other thing. Not a writer. Not me.
Then I had this crazy idea. I asked my media professor out for coffee. He ended up turning it back around on me and buying me coffee, but that’s okay, too. We talked for a couple hours and it was fascinating and enlightening and really engaging conversation.
That’s when it happened. This person with over 10 published books, over 40 years of journalism experience, and a completely no-holds-barred love of honesty flat out told me I have a gift for writing.
Well, crap.
I can’t be a writer, I say, because they’re all poor and depressed and drunk…except you, of course. (See that use of language, where I totally insulted him but then took it all back at the end. That is considered super-classy by writers. It’s not backpedaling or just trying to cover your butt. It’s technique.)
He said something along the lines of: Writers have been doing paid gigs they hate from the beginning of time. All writers hate their work and think it’s crap because they know they could have done better.
Surprise! I had NOTHING to say to that. He did that thing where a very intuitive person reaches into your head and shuts your argumentative butt down before you have the chance to even get out the first whiny word.
While I am a big fan of doing that thing to strangers on the street or people I don’t know very well, I don’t remember the last time someone did that to me. It was humbling, to say the least. Part of me wanted to wring his neck (just a little, I swear) but we put that part back in the steel cage in my head where he lives a highly pretend-medicated existance.
Stop being scared, he said. Stop attaching your work to your ego. Realize your work exists for its own sake and not for the love of others.
Oh wow. Yes. THAT.
See, I may hate writing, but I hate not writing even more. It’s why my blog hasn’t gone totally out of existance since I started it in 2003. It’s why, even though I have complained about writing since the day you’ve known me, I can’t seem to stop. “It’s just for work,” I say, “It’s a necessary evil,” I explain. But what really remains is that if I didn’t want a job where writing was necessary, I could get another job.
Instead of lying to myself about why I write I’m going to just keep writing.
Because this hodgepodge mess of me talking to you here like you’re sitting across from me at the Starbucks? Yeah, I found out that’s called “writing style” and it takes years to develop and getting rid of it would be a very. bad. idea.
So I choose to avoid the very. bad. idea. and stick with the writing. I don’t know exactly what will happen from this point forward, but I’m going to own it and sashay with it and see what happens.
The downside to all of this was when he told me that academic writing is not compatible with my style of writing. At all. That is worrying, to say the least.
Tell me, what’s your gift? Are you honoring it or hiding it and choosing to do other things you’re less afraid of? I’m just curious if this happens to other artists, any non-artists.
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