Do you value your writing life?
Meditations on standards and confidence
I took all the writers in the world and put them into three camps. Here are the writers who enjoy literary acclaim, are published, are widely read, have been interviewed, are gifted, genius and prolific. These are the professionals; writers who are good enough to have monetised their writing in some way. They create content, report the news, write editorials or copy for ads. Their eyes swallow up the world and drink of its currents. They write thoughtful, erudite, glib, easy, lucid, saleable, friendly, catchy words that are consumed almost as rapidly as they are produced. People enjoy it. Editors give them the nod. The product gets sold. They get a paycheck. The third group is the dreamers and the hustlers. They publish poetry on their social media for likes, they create zines that barely sell on Etsy. They blog. They pitch furiously during submission cycles of literary magazines that will rarely pay. They chip away in obscurity on novels. They’re ambitious and moody. They’re wonderful and brave, fuelled by dream power even as they’re constantly beaten down by self-doubt and the fear of failure.
As a freelance writer, whenever I have a slow month, I immediately fly into a panic. This past month, I took that panic into my fist and examined it closely. In the past, I have accepted work from clients who don’t value the skills and experience I bring to the table. It was always an act of horrible desperation. That’s what per-word/per-article freelance work does to you. If you’re good and can work fast, you write more and therefore make more. You push yourself to produce more and you then have no energy left to practice writing that is meaningful to you, to pursue creative projects of your own. It’s the biggest scam in the world. As a professional writer, I’ve decided to change the narrative. I can’t allow the people I work for to decide how I’m valued. Does this mean I’ll be turning down jobs left and right? Absolutely not. It’s how I make money and though I believe all writers, yes even amateur ones, should be fairly compensated for their work, I’m not in a position to bargain above industry standards. However, I have been more assertive when it comes to negotiating remuneration and I have been turning down the more exploitative jobs that have been coming by way. Let me tell you, for me, that’s HUGE.
As an ambitious writer, I have been asking myself whether I have the sort of writing life that aligns with where I am in my life right now. I have a small child. Realistically, I can’t spend hours at my desk. I have to accept and make my peace with a writing practice that is forgiving and flexible. I’m privileged to have someone watch my child for a few hours in the morning, but you best believe I’m leaving the study if I hear the wail that comes after he throws his Zebra into the neighbours’ balcony. I also leave my desk when I hear him laughing or getting excited about something outside my door. I want to laugh with him. Maybe Stephen King can keep up a consistent seven-hour writing schedule. I can’t and that’s okay.
Recently I have taken to journaling about my standards as a writer and whether I’m comfortable with them. I recently wrote an essay for a literary magazine that examined my discomfort with mediocrity. Reaching a place of grace when I write is hard and I’m easily frustrated. To combat this, I told myself I would stop writing when it felt like a chore. If something isn’t working, I let it go. I have a billion ideas and most of them end up fuzzy, undefined and a rambling mess on the page. I now count my successes as things I finish writing. Not everything you write will be brilliant and moving, but if you’ve written it, you’ve already won. Without my knowing it, this approach boosted my confidence, which I believe is a crucial part of being a writer. Usually, confidence doesn’t come easy to me. Yes, I can put on a show of confidence, but there’s always a little kernel of deep insecurity. The way I see it, confidence is the currency you need to survive life as an artist. The world is especially indifferent to us even though it needs us desperately. I know this at my core. I look around me and I see tenacity everywhere. It’s the stuff of life. It’s in the arts. It’s in every young person living in a country that imprisons, exploits and shames them. Tenacity. I draw it to me and feel it burn behind my eyes. I put it in my writing. I trust that it will all pay off someday.
