who gave you permission?
The small, scattered moments that allowed me to keep moving forward
Hi friends 🍵🍂
When I was in fourth grade, I wrote letters to my English teacher, Ms. Sebastian. I have no idea what the content was—probably scattered thoughts related to class readings and English in general—but I do remember that I would include a chapter from a story I was writing, painstakingly copied by hand onto stationery. My first-person narrator was a blonde girl named Jenny, and she was being bullied by a Japanese girl named Kirei (I know, I know. I cringe). Jenny had glasses and braces, which ten-year-old-Isa did too, and she probably was Filipino on the inside, but I wrote on the page that she was American.
Only this particular newsletter isn’t about how problematic it was that I couldn’t fathom writing a Filipino character. That’s an issue for another time, and honestly, I think I’ve covered that topic enough on various diversity panels. (I mean, it’s important…but it’s pretty obvious why it happens, and writing, to me, is the way I mainly work to change that.)
This newsletter is about how Ms. Sebastian took me and my writing seriously, and in so doing, allowed me to think of myself as a writer. She was the IRL version of the random fanfic commenters I encountered around the same age. Instead of questioning why I was writing to her (I mean, I definitely wasn’t doing it to suck up or get a better grade, but I feel like a teacher could have misconstrued it that way)—she sometimes wrote me back. Instead of saying LOL YOUR STORY SUCKS, she acknowledged it, at least enough for me to keep sending her more. I’m pretty sure I got up to chapter six before I either got bored of my story or graduated to the fifth grade. Alas, Jenny and Kirei’s tedious high school drama shall never be resolved.
It’s not that I think a teacher would actively discourage me as a young writer, or roast my tentative story-bud (I already lived in mortal fear of fanfic roasts, anyway). It’s more that she could have easily ignored or downplayed it, or in some other way not indicated to me that it was valuable. But her kind reception gave me the gumption to keep on writing, and encouraged the weird ballsiness that made me send letters to my fifth-grade English teacher, too…and to continue being a little more forward about my creative writing, ever after.
Ms. Sebastian is one of several people I think of when I ask myself how am I still writing? Along the way, various folks gave me the little nudges I needed to keep trying. During long droughts or periods when I seriously stopped, oftentimes it was someone else’s belief in me that kept me going. And I don’t know if they knew what those gestures or moments meant to me, but I’ve held them close all these years as I’ve struggled on this path.
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An incomplete list of other times I felt like I’d been given permission to be a writer:
When the elementary school paper let me publish a weird sad alien story called Keravi
When G, an FF.Net writer I admired, left a review saying I love the dirty exhaustion of this on one of my fics
When W and M, upon accepting me into the prestigious literary org of my college as a staffer, said, “You have an ear for poetry”
When M, a panelist at a Filipino writers’ workshop, said “Hindi ko alam kung may sense yung tula na to, but these lines—that’s the sound of poetry, kaibigan!”
When I was published in my first-ever anthology, and N wrote in my copy, Do not stop writing, sugar!
When K wrote, while signing my book, for Isabel—write more, please
When R agreed to meet with me for coffee at my first-ever con, after I sent her a hand-flapping DM about loving her short story very much
When DWJ replied to my fan letter and said You go ahead and set a story in the Philippines
When A invited me to silent writing sessions in San Francisco, and afterwards, we’d eat crackers and dip while respectfully listening to each other’s messy drafts
Any capslock fic reviews
When K, a coworker, said “That was so good!” after reading a story I’d tentatively sent her, upon her request
…and those instances when someone would ask: “So—what are you writing?”
I don’t mean in that annoying way when people are probing whether you’ve made progress on this esoteric hobby of yours. I count myself lucky that the people in my life don’t really ask that kind of thing, that kind of way (and I don’t talk about my process much with my family in the first place). I mean people who are genuinely curious. It’s not that I can read their intention, but I take them at their word, sharing just enough in response. They didn’t need to think of me as a writer; they didn’t need to be so encouraging, but they were. These moments add up. I take myself more seriously, and that makes others take me more seriously, in a positive feedback loop.
None of this would make a difference if I didn’t give myself permission, of course. In the end, no one can do that essential act for you: of claiming your right to be a writer, your right to do this work.
I understand the impulse, but I’d urge you not to downplay the importance of your writer identity. Don’t tell anyone who sincerely refers to you as a writer, “No, I actually suck!” (with dramatic hand-against-one’s-forehead-pose). Of course, don’t self-aggrandize either. People don’t owe you anything for this fact; they should respect you, but being an artist doesn’t give you special privileges. Be cool with it. You are a writer. Trust in this first. Then collect the moments that’ll keep you believing in this truth when the going gets tough.
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What if you never got these moments?
What if you’ve been working on your craft all this time, and never got those small bursts of validation?
What if, anytime writing comes up, the people around you completely invalidate its worth, the time you spend on it, and whether or not you have any future in this thing?
First off: shit, I’m sorry. Honestly. That’s really, really hard. Writing’s hard enough without any kind of support system. It’s infinitely harder when there are people in your life who undermine the worth of this thing you love, and your investment in it. I’d say ditch those people! but of course it’s almost never that easy. And in those cases you may be discouraged from bringing up writing again, or believing in it…and it makes sense, your hurt and pain.
In this scenario, I would encourage you to try and find people who will do that work of taking you seriously. It does require putting yourself out there, which takes effort and overcoming fear. I only ever got the moments above because I was sharing my work, applying for things, submitting stuff for publication, or actively attempting to connect with people. I wouldn’t suggest doing these things instead of writing, but spending some time to build community when you can usually has positive benefits. In the early days, finding even just one or two people who will take you seriously can make all the difference.
Then I’d say: you’re amazing. To stick with this despite never having those little moments of affirmation is a Herculean task that I’m not sure I could’ve managed. Be proud of being your own champion, and recognize that you’ve built up so much resilience along the way, doing this. (Such a necessary skill, to succeeding in this space!)
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Whether you’ve received little boosts or never have—if you’re in a position to do that to someone else, I hope you do it! Because it makes such a difference, and your single comment, your good job, that specific thing you saw in their work—or even just the fact that you’re seriously listening to someone’s ideas—could spell the difference between them sticking with it or not.
In the past year, I’ve met some people who have wanted to write, but are still grappling with giving themselves permission. Maybe they’ve been working a different career all this time, shelving this passion, and are now wondering how do I do this? Maybe they liked creative writing when they were a student, but in the transition to adulthood, they stopped. Maybe they’ve never been in an environment where people think writing fiction, or working on a novel, is a thing anyone should do. When I realize this, I find myself chanting at them: write, write, write.
If that’s you: write, write, write.
Look: I’m never in a settled state with this. Like anyone else, the reinforcement, in whatever form I can nab it, does matter. But if you’re seeking permission to do this…here it is. I can’t convince you if you don’t believe it, and only you can determine whether it’s worth it. All I can say this that the only thing you need to do is write. There’s someone out there waiting for your story, even if that person is a you who needs that draft. Keep going.
This past January I hiked the Masungi Georeserve with my friends. From this part of the hike those mountains seemed intimidating and faraway; but eventually we did clear them (it wasn’t even that bad, it just took time). A little bit like the creative journey.
Events and things
This Saturday, I’ll be on a panel with Usman Malik and Shveta Thrakar, moderated by the artist Rohama Malik. Per Usman’s post: “We figured it may be fun and useful to talk about craft and publishing journeys for aspiring writers especially margnalized writers all over the world through The Desi Collection’s Writers Block Party!” It will be on October 3rd at 9 am PST/12 pm EST (apologies to PH-based folks…I’ll run a better timed event eventually!). The event will be streamed live on the Desi Collective Facebook Page.
Usman’s debut short story collection, Midnight Doorways, comes out next February. Shveta Thrakar’s Star Daughter came out this past August. They’re both phenomenal writers and lovely friends, and their books are definitely worth your time!
Thanks as always for reading! If you liked this post, feel free to share it with others, or sign up if you haven’t yet. If you have a story to share about permission-granting, please do! If you have questions for this newsletter, I’d love to answer them—you can submit them here.