Why It’s Painful to Say “I’m a Writer”
While driving back to Boston with my cousin, she
suddenly turned to me and said, “When I tell people you came to New York for
theatre, a lot of them say, ‘So, she’s an actress?’”
Full disclosure, had she not been so close by to
help, I’m not sure I would have been able to move to New York City. Initially,
I did some research and planned on finding alternative stays, but having a
relative to house me while I got on my feet has been invaluable. I came on a
whim and a prayer, daunted by the inability to rent an apartment or get a job
until I was actually present to view the possibilities. I just wasn’t sure what
I was getting into, and having a familiar face who knew the city gave me a
strong safety net.
I found my apartment through her. A friend of a
friend. I’m in a safe neighborhood, close to the action, and even within my
price range. Because of her effort, the move was surprisingly painless, and
though I found myself physically ill with the stress, in the last week a huge
amount of tension has let off my shoulders.
“I’m like, ‘Um, no actually, she isn’t,’” my
cousin continued.
“Yeah. I’m always surprised about the tone that
some people get when they ask about your goals.”
Any writer, aspiring or full-blown committed, can
tell you which tone I’m talking about. There’s a common conversation amongst us
about what happened when “outted” ourselves, wonder when is it okay to seize
the label, and discuss why some people don’t ever tell anyone. Despite what
people tell you about your mother liking everything you do, not everyone has a
supportive family. In fact, many people talk about their books to the ones
closest to them and receive nothing more than a smirk in response.
I got some derision for my choice to move. Lots of
people—strangers even—telling me where I should
move, like the one lovely gentleman who informed me under no uncertain terms I
should move to New Orleans due to “jazz” and “sports.” If you’ve never met me,
I bet you can take one gander at my picture over on the right there and presume
how excited I am about those two things. Still, he cited “because I know you
and I just thought…” when I finally unfriend the busybody stranger for his
constant naysaying. As I drove from Wyoming to New York, I stopped at quilt
shops along the way to talk to women in ankle length skirts and eighty’s
housewife hair literally praying for me and offering up helpful suggestions of
locking my doors.
Mostly though, I would get the strange response
of, “Well, I hope everything goes as planned.”
Not only did they presume high expectations on me,
but that I would fail them.
I moved to New York City because I was ready to
live life, meet people, and have more opportunities to create. In that vein, be
pretty damn hard for me to fail.
I’ve heard writers insist they’d never tell their
families what they were doing. “They wouldn’t understand.” And I get that.
My cousin, a lawyer, seemed a little surprise by
the all too familiar condescension of people in the art world. I can’t say I
know for sure what it is like to tell your friends and family you’re going to
be, or are, a lawyer, but I have to expect that there’s a few pieces of paper
you can get to shut them up about any incredulousness about your capabilities
or seriousness about it.
There’s not really such a paper as a writer.
Sure, you can get an MFA, but that doesn’t
necessarily mean a lot. I once had an agent at a conference mention how she
tended to assume people with degrees had more theoretical practice than actual
practice in writing. And many people go to college to never write again. It
doesn’t mean you’ll make money, you’ll stay true to it, or even that you’re any
good, so it’s not as if it graduating with a degree with stop that smirking
tone. Not even getting a book published will necessarily get people to shut up.
You can look at the criticism on several popular writers nowadays and even
being a bestseller won’t convince people you are a “real” writer.
In fact, I believe the biggest difficulty in
admitting what you want to be doing has to do with your own disbelief in your
credentials. It’s hard to say, “I’m a writer,” when you don’t feel like a writer, when you don’t know
if you’re going to succeed, if you aren’t sure if you’re any good or not.
I started telling people I’m a writer when I had
an answer to, “What have you written?”
“Oh, just type my name online and you’ll find my
short stories.”
But still, it’s not the first thing out of my
mouth. I don’t make a killing on it. My successes are extremely mild. I don’t
toss them all out with the bathwater of course, but I’m not delusional about my
paper-thin paper-trail of credibility.
There’s a sort of smugness when I can say to any
skeptical brow-raiser who asks if I want to be an actress, “No. I’m interested
in tech.”
I’m interested in producing, if I were to be
completely honest. Playwriting, of course, being that I got involved in tech
to meet and greet potential board members and directors. But I say tech
because, while true, it is, more importantly, unusual. It doesn’t have a
precedent. It wipes the smirk off their face. It puts me in a different
category than the hordes of women flocking to the city in hopes of being the
next big Broadway star.
Why do people fear being lobbed in with the
hopefuls? What’s with the noseward sneer on people who actively pursue their
dreams? Because there’s so many of us? Because we don’t want to be “that kind”
of person?
Point is, the look’s there. Many of you have felt
it, many of you question what makes those words so hard to say. Is it because
of self-doubt? Because you haven’t done enough?
There’s lots of reasons, but I’d like to say that
talking about your dreams is hard for anyone, and you’re not insane for it. Not
everyone is going to be supportive.
Regardless, the nagging feeling shouldn’t deter
you from pursuing it, even if you’re not sure you want to tell anyone about
your plans.
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