Maybe I Never Should Have Called Myself a Writer

August 7, 2020 § 27 Comments


Sarah RosenblumBy Sarah Terez Rosenblum

I’ve always been a commitaphobe when it comes to identity. From sexual orientation to avocation; I’m unwilling to claim one facet as the whole. Even with MFA in hand, and my first novel published, when Tinder dates asked, I never said “I write.” Yet in front of my students, I gave lip-service to commitment. “The work will come; just grant yourself permission to be who you are.”

Eventually, desperation, not dedication changed my relationship to writing. What I mean is, the man I was dating went back to his wife. I’m not sure why I found this change destabilizing. I’d weathered more consequential breakups—long term relationships, requiring the dividing of CDs and shared custody of dogs. I came to men late, but he wasn’t the first man I’d dated. And even that shift hadn’t shattered me. I’d never been one of those rainbow flag girls. The ones who start every sentence with as a lesbian, who wear their queerness on their tattooed sleeves. I’d faced no loss of self, so I figured my refusal to let one aspect eclipse my identity had paid off. But now, in the aftermath of this particular breakup, I felt formless; no matter I’d held back—same way I did with all my passions; afraid to dive in and find the water only two feet deep.

At first I wrote to imagine alternate endings; to linger longer with the man who had left. I wrote to muffle time until I could bear the ice-pick tick of minutes. Over time, my frenzy grew a thicket of fiction; eventually, I cared more about the character I’d based on the man than about the blurry past. Soon, I’d streamlined my teaching and quit scrabbling to live on internet Think Pieces. I gave up my apartment, moving in with my mother in Wisconsin. Less strapped for money, I blocked off more days to write. Meanwhile, my hours of writing built an infrastructure which supported my process.  First, an inner wall to encircle my creativity. Protecting me from myself, it held my Critical Mind just outside. Next, an outer wall to shelter me from external forces. It kept me insulated from other writer’s voices and the whims of culture and commerce. These walls created space for me to invest in myself.  It was true then, the smooth inspiration I’d soft-served my students: Once I committed to my craft, I was free to perfect it. After three years, I emerged from self-imposed isolation a writer. Finally I’d allowed myself to become who I was.

*

So, I’m forty-one, and what began as moony self-soothing has become a compact literary thriller. On the east coast, my agent has her sights set on the Big Five publishers. In the Midwest, I’m messing with some speculative fiction. Picture the writer, smug in her identity. She’s wearing tie-dyed leggings, drinking coffee out of a unicorn mug. She’s writing a story about a genie when the pandemic hits.

The first thing to go was the internal wall around my creativity. My Critical Mind rose above in a cherry picker. Your mom is immunosuppressed, and you dont know if your exhale could kill her! Hospitals are filling with victims! How can you write a story about a genie (Even if the genie represents the undervaluing of art)? 

Next, outside voices punched through the outer wall that shielded my sense of uniqueness. All around me I saw writers shifting their panic into Think Pieces. My Critical Mind found a megaphone. How can these people write so fast about toilet paper? How can they think through their angle on Zoom exhaustion? What does any single point of view matter when were all having the same experience? Except also were not having the same experience! How is yours worth uplifting when the virus is highlighting systemic inequality, and the people hardest hit are disproportionally black?

Slog forward several months, and the genie story sits unopened on my desktop. I’ve heard from my agent sporadically. At first, sheltered at home in New York, she couldn’t find a hand scanner for my edits. Now. she’s watching the publishing situation with caution. Editors are being laid off and she expects more personnel changes across the board. In Wisconsin, the Supreme Court has long struck down the stay at home order and Covid cases are rising. My daily practice looks less like writing, more like trying not to check my phone. And God I miss the deep dives; distant sunlight making wavery shapes on the surface, while I’m alone in my depths below.

I warned you, my Critical Mind blares. “Making something your identity is dangerous. When it shifts, you dont know who you are.

I know what you’re thinking—my Critical Mind already thought it. There are worse things than writer’s block and a stalled career. I’m lucky I have savings. I’m lucky my employer transitioned classes to Zoom. But my concern here is identity, and vocation is just one part of that. The way we conceive of ourselves creates us. Identity is bound up in the constitution. It’s what we fight for in civil rights movements—whether Black Lives Matter or For God Sake Let Trans People Pee.

We are not all the same in what we’ve lost to this virus— it spreads unequally. Shannon Doherty is live on Instagram cooking kale in her kitchen, meanwhile with schools closed, many of the nation’s poorest kids spent spring with no access to lunch. Still, it would be condescending to claim that only the elite have the wherewithal to grapple with a loss of identity. I might have time to (slowly, painfully) write about it— and that is a luxury—but the sense of lost self crosses income levels and race.

Recently, when I should have been writing, I listened to a Daily podcast about Achut Deng who contracted Covid-19 after an outbreak at her Idaho meat packing plant.

“Did you consider just staying home from work?” A reporter asks her. Deng’s voice cracks. “To be honest, I did not. I was just thinking… I need to keep working so I can support my family. Thinking about it now, it hurts.” It seems Deng means that her own health had not been her priority. An orphan and immigrant, her focus had been on remaining the person who made a better life for her sons. Obviously, survival is key here; you can’t self-actualize till your basic needs are met. Still, tied up in Deng’s answer are self-esteem and personal integrity. When she was sent home from work, she felt some essential part of her was gone.

Being told the local watering hole is closed is not comparable. Still you hear the fear in those who flocked to bars in Milwaukee when they opened. Cloaked in complaints of boredom were deeper questions. Who am I if I cant blow off steam over brews with my buddies? For better or for worse, we ground our sense of self in what we commit to. We become who we are through the things we do. And those people with guns, shouting about masks and haircuts? They’re angry because they feel threatened by outside forces. I’m not saying “there are very fine people on both sides,” but anger covers fear, and beneath their indefensible politics and disregard for the collective health of the country, just like me, it’s a sense of self they’re afraid they’ve let slip.

*

Over these months of uncertainty I’ve wondered: Do I regret committing to my writing? Would I feel less threatened if I had less self to lose? Maybe the right answer is identity is ever-evolving. A healthy ego can incorporate new information. In the end we’ll grow stronger from this momentary loss of self.

But I’m not ready for peaceful acceptance. It’s like that Think Piece says (The one written, pitched and shared across Facebook, while I was deleting twenty different first sentences); right now we’re grieving. As individuals and as a country, we are removed from the daily ways we define ourselves: as churchgoers; as stand-up comics; as gym-rats; as physically demonstrative friends. A sense of identity and selfhood are made manifest through a number of factors, and like so many, more than stylish hair, more than community, my sense of who I am is what, for now, I’ve lost.
___

Sarah Terez Rosenblums work has appeared in literary magazines such as Third Coast, Underground Voices, Carve and The Boiler. She has written for sites including Salon, The Chicago Sun Times, The Satirist, and Pop Matters. She was shortlisted for Zoetrope All Storys 2016 Short Fiction Contest, receiving an honorable mention. Most recently, Sarah was a runner-up for Prairie Schooners annual summer Creative Nonfiction Contest and her work was published in their Summer 2020 issue. Pushcart Prize nominated, Sarah holds an MFA in Creative Writing from The School of the Art Institute of Chicago, is a Creative Coach, and teaches creative writing at The University of Chicago Writer’s Studio. Her novel, Herself When She’s Missing, was called “poetic and heartrending” by Booklist.

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§ 27 Responses to Maybe I Never Should Have Called Myself a Writer

  • You are a writer because endowed the gift within your soul to write *&* you write like to perfection, 100%-to-360-degrees is the whole according to literary critics, but writers think not because a writer’s job to the world is never complete. However, your writings here are top notch flawless!

  • loiscooper says:

    This is simply perfect. On so many levels. You are a writer, even if now, you need to swim closer to the surface. When it is safe again — when you feel safe again — you will take those luscious, scary deep dives. I am confident of that, happy for your readers that this is the case.

  • loiscooper says:

    And, by the way: you don’t need the praise. Just forget about it. You are the real deal.

  • Yes, “anger covers fear.” Who we are and what we do . . . Who are we if we do not do those things we do?

  • Michael Lewis says:

    I agree with Lois and Jan. This is perfect writing. Your ability to write through your challenges with such clear-mindedness is just wonderful. And yes, the “anger covers fear” and “Who are we if we do not do those things we do?” Interesting and emotionally wise writing. Thanks so much for this, Sarah.

  • geodutton says:

    You get it and got to me as a writer. At first, I leapt to publish several pieces on the pandemic, but quickly gave it up after witnessing a tsunami of mostly rueful if not morbid covid-related introspection everywhere I looked. And you said what I thought better than I thought it:

    “How can these people write so fast about toilet paper? How can they think through their angle on Zoom exhaustion? What does any single point of view matter when we’re all having the same experience? Except also we’re not having the same experience! How is yours worth uplifting when the virus is highlighting systemic inequality, and the people hardest hit are disproportionally [sic] black?”

    And yet … here I am, keeping to my routines, just running around and socializing less than usual. I’m putting out essays, getting some accepted. Dusting off stories from my backlist. Working on a novel started over a year ago without coronavirus as a character. In my heart I know it needs lots of work before it can or should ever be published, and that’s what I’ve been doing.

    I don’t have time to write about toilet paper or parodies of brains on zoom. I even gave up writing about Trump except for the odd tweet. I’ve got work to do, dammit, and no stupid virus or venal leader is going to distract me no matter how crappy I feel about what’s going down. Perhaps the stage of grief after acceptance is indifference.

    But still, I grieve, and when I do I can only take it for a few minutes before shutting down. What I grieve for is both a human tragedy and an environmental one. I feel the planet dying and can’t believe the awful choices so many of us have made that have caused it. In the face of that, the virus seems to me like Gaia’s revenge. Speaking as a planet, Covid-19 isn’t the worst thing that could happen right about now.

    • I can’t believe how generous everyone is with their responses to this piece. I’m really gratified that it spoke to your experience.

      • Your post is truthful *&* you write it from your heart yet reluctant to publish your articles on COVID-19.and that is a writer’s choice to publish or not, but I did publish here about COVID-19, and it’s a tough *&* not an easy subject to write about and even discuss in light of how adversely dangerous it is!

  • So much enjoyed this, thank you!

  • Well H—! Wish that over the years I’d dated a guy that gave me a pang for more than a week when I lost him. Seriously, it might have contributed to being a selling author: at least a writer that wrote about human relationships instead of horses, dogs, cats, international water policy, and medieval theology. But I was born with strange interests. In any case sincerest congratulations on the upcoming publication of your novel! Way to go. . .

  • AnonaMom says:

    Thank you for being brave enough to share this exploration of self in context of the wider world. This reached me where I am today.

  • […] Maybe I Never Should Have Called Myself a Writer […]

    • loiscooper says:

      Jeremiah 8777, I so apologize for this, but I couldn’t help myself:

      “To be is to do”—Socrates.
      “To do is to be”—Jean-Paul Sartre.
      “Do be do be do”—Frank Sinatra.

      Sometimes a little silly just feels SO good!! 🙂

  • Alan Biné says:

    I enjoyed what you said, particularly how willing and open you seem to express your feelings. My writing doesn’t have the depth of yours. I write mainly to entertain myself and a few friends. If you’re interested, please look me up. whimsicleblog.wordpress.com

  • jeffseitzer says:

    I am stunned. Insightful, witty, nuanced, a guide to thinking reflectively about the self. And to think my main concern during the pandemic is whether there will ever be happy hours on the beach again. Very impressive.

  • jeremiah8777 says:

    Grammarly app., for writer’s

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