Hello friends ššµ
Recently, while rummaging through a 2012 diary, I read the following entry:
What if I gave writing a chance?
That wasnāt what I meant to say, but circling back here, there is that questionāwhat would make me happy? What would I love doing every day?
Writing is hard work, and it takes a lot of time. Iām not a slow writer, and my published work so far has never needed more than a few revisions, mostly minimal. Iām grateful for that. Publishing at 18 has given me some confidenceāthis could work. I havenāt earned anything from my creative writing yet, beyond the $70 I earned from [anthology]. And I realized, itās not good to submit things Iām not totally happy about. But am I happy writing? Yeah, even when it hurts. Could I do it for an extended period of time? Iāve done it before, for summer, so yes, maybe. Can I write these stories? Well, I wonāt know if I donāt even give myself a chance, right?
Iād be happy doing this, I think. Even if it hurt, and there would be those days when I feel like Iām going crazy, like, this is ridiculous. But how lucky I am, to be able to write. How lucky I am to have this potential, this possibility. I can write.
It gave me pause to read all that. In 2012, I hadnāt been to Clarion yet. I had written and published five original stories, all in Philippine anthologies, but Iād only been paid for oneāwhich I was perfectly happy with, as I was just so pleased someone wanted to print my work. Trying to publish in a Western spec fic magazine had never crossed my mind.
I hadnāt yet graduated from college, and I hadnāt had my first full time job; I was coming off a blissful semester in Tokyo (where I fell in love with onsen), wondering if there was some way to live in Japan in the future. I planned on attending graduate school but I still wasnāt sure which degree, though I already had plans to take the GMAT. I figured I would need to find some technology job in Silicon Valley, but even then, my heart was asking: well, what about writing?
Itās interestingāIāve changed my mind about some of the things in that entry. Now I consider myself a slow writer, and Iāve learned that the luck I had then, not revising, has been a major challenge in writing longer work. Also, I want to ask my younger self, where on earth did you get that confidence, and can I have some of it? Iāve published more stories since then, and been paid better, but Iāve lost most of that audacity. Instead of thinking this could work I find myself thinking: how the hell do I make this work?
One thing that did make me feel relieved, though, was this sense that I havenāt let my younger self down because I kept at it. Iām still writing.
The life Iām living nowāthis is what giving writing a chance looks like.
Thereās a handful of photos from Japan 2012 that I keep permanently on my phone; these unreal fall leaves are part of that. Looking at it transports me back to Rikugi-en, tilting my head to see the koyo, bright red against the sky. A stick of dango and a paper cup of green tea in my hands. A clean, pure rush of joy.
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I know that part of my younger self was asking: can I spend most of my days doing this? Itās a question I often came back to in the past year, walking beside the Charles River, reflecting on yet another speaker or reading at school that encouraged us to think about how we can contribute most to the world.
I know my answer. Iāve known since I was six, where I went up to the podium at my kindergarten graduation and said: āWhen I grow up I want to be a writer.ā
But Iāve also never believed I could be a writer, or live a writerās life, spending my days immersed in words. It seemed impractical the whole time I was growing up. I didnāt know any writers, certainly not any Filipino fictionists; it was only in high school that I started buying Filipiniana books, and only rarely. No one needed to tell me that artists didnāt make money. I knew it instinctively, and didnāt find evidence to the contrary.
There was a certain image in my head, of what it meant to live a writing life: where writing is the only work, and it fills my days, except once in a while I do writerly things like go on retreats or travel the world; sometimes I teach and sometimes I edit. The sunlight is always awesome and dramatic in these images. I obviously never get writerās block, nor do I feel intense loneliness.
When I think of a writerās life in that narrow senseāthe sense I meant, back in 2012āI still think itās impractical, though I know by now itās possible. It simply requires making some very serious tradeoffs.
When I broaden up my definition of giving writing a chance, however, I can see and appreciate that itās actually what Iāve been doing this whole time. It means giving writing the space to be part of my life, and taking myself seriously as a writer. For me, it has meant clinging on to writing however I can: adding CW classes to my course load so that Iām forced to write for homework; writing during the weekends when my day job is too intense during the week; or right now, getting up early to see whether my brain can cough up a few words in the hour I have, before I switch to my work laptop. It means writing around the edges, any time I can find, and holding space in my heart and brain for the storiesāhowever I can.
Writing friends Iāve talked to have come up with all kinds of arrangements. Some of them do write full time, but like I said, thatās where the clear-eyed tradeoffs come into play: where you live, what type of health insurance you can get, what gigs or projects you take on to have some income between publications, and whether or not your partner can assist with living costs. Others have found ways to live a writing life either for part of the year, or part of their week. Some of them are teachers. Some of them work in technology, like me. Folks are quick to recognize how privilege and luck have roles to play in enabling their writing lives, too.
Itās important to recognize that itās hard for everyone, at every stage. Thereās immense pressure on the people writing full-time, even as they recognize how lucky they are; itās a tough pace, and requires being careful with budgeting and clear-eyed about what you can produce. Or, if you havenāt published yet, it means dealing with the stress of needing to prove youāre working towards something. Those, like me, who work full-time and write when possible, struggle with split attention and a lack of time, though the steady income and alternative work reduce our anxieties in critical ways. And those who have an arrangement where they write part-time and work part-time also have to deal with context switching, time constraints, and pressureāto varying degrees, depending on their situation. This stuffās not easy for anyone!
But we do itābecause this is how we make it work. The story wonāt happen unless we find the time, cultivate the idea, then engage in that terrible grind of converting brain-stuff to actual words on a page, and from there to words actually worth reading. Itās a wrestling match. Writing is work, and itās hard.
I love doing it, anyway. I mean I hate it, frequently, but I also love it. I feel lucky to know that. A significant part of my work is clearing away all the things that keep me from giving this a shot. To recognize what I can do now, but also to keep asking this question: how can I give this a chance?
How do I protect the time I have?
How do I forgive, reward, encourage, and push myselfāat the various times I need to?
How do I make it easy for inspiration to find me?
Who do I admire as a writer? How have they managed their careers? What can I learn from that?
How can I make it easier for those I live with, or the people in my life who make it possible for me to do this work?
How do I find joy in it, even when the work is crushing?
No one will give you permission to do this. You have to give it to yourself, and you have to believe itās worth it.
It may not be exactly the writing life Iāve dreamed of, but this is my life. And because Iām a writer, that makes it, quite literally, my writing life.
I hope you can look at the work youāre doing now, and be both kind and tough on yourself when you ask the question of how. I also hope you are finding ways to give yourself that chance; you deserve it, and so do the people who need your work.
Reccs and things
Iāve really enjoyed the podcast Track Changes by Sarah Enni; itās a beautifully produced mini-series on what goes on behind the scenes in publishing. Each episode is informative, and itās been useful for me to think about for my collection, and the projects that will come after.
āBy 1982 Iād written two novels, and had both rejected. [ā¦] Iād worked quite hard on them, and when they were turned down I simply sat down and asked myself, What is the book that you would write if you absolutely knew you were never going to be published?ā - Pat Barker
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