Questions I’ve Been Asked That Ask Me Still
The other day, a new friend of mine asked me how I became a writer. I gave him the usual spiel.
Just now, I happened by chance onto an old Tumblr post in which I answer that same question, asked by an anonymous reader. It came in through the asking machine.
I shouldn’t tell you this. It’s bad for business. But here we are.
A lot of my usual spiel now is the same as then. I’ve always written. I’ve always been making up stuff to amuse myself and others. It’s the thing I’m good at, I think, even if I’m not a top-shelf talent. More to the point, I’m not as good at anything else, so I do this.
This passage, from that older answer, is vexing me a bit, though:
Over time I’ve learned to write less often and with less confidence. I’ve learned that other writers are better than me—faster, smoother, braver. The words come more easily for some.
This is something that’s been lashed to my brain lately, especially.
I don’t write like I used to write. I don’t write as much because I’m not allowed dessert writing (blogs, letters, stories) until I finish my work writing. And, because of the nature of my work and what it pays, there are no breaks in my work writing. I’m not always working, but I’ve always got the stone on my back, because I always should be, because I’m not yet the writer that I want to be and I’ve got debts to pay.
I don’t write like I used to write. I write with less confidence. I look back at things I’ve written before — blog posts that strut right out into traffic — and I cringe twice. First for the foolish gall and the broad strokes. Second for the foolhardy verve and eager voice. I painted big shapes on the bricks and stenciled on the asphalt. My bravery was wasted on a young writer.
Somewhere along the way, I’ve learned timidity, which is like caution but worse. I’ve learned that others can get away with things that I cannot. I’ve learned to doubt myself more and trust myself less. Part of this is wary wisdom, a shield raised by age. Part of this is the scar and part of this is the wound.
What good is a wound if you don’t learn from it? What good is a wound if you learn the wrong lesson?
The other day, a friend asked me how long it takes me to earn $100. I had to reply with things like “I don’t know” and “too long” and “it depends.” The question looked at me with knives in its eyes and said, “You won’t ever make enough money to buy the time to write the things you became a writer to write.”
Maybe the question is right.
Many of the things I was going to write, for all the reasons that writers write, are going to go unwritten because there are only so many days in a lifetime and I am spending mine writing other’s things because I need to eat and writing is the only thing I know how to do and I seem to know less about how to do it than I once did.
These are not real facts but they are real thoughts, thought up for real. This is the anxiety talking and I am not alone in this. This is a liquid prison, a chemical fallacy secreted by my brain into itself, but it feels real enough sometimes. So it goes.
What else can I do but write about it?
Notes
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