I’ll Be A Real Writer When

November 20, 2018 § 18 Comments

By Janine Canty

I could give a five hour talk on how I’m not a Real Writer.

When I was 18 and headed to college for journalism I believed the Real Writers all lived in New York and had their shit together. They smoked long cigarettes, and had voices like gravel mixed with honey.

I did not make it to college. Because I didn’t have my shit together. I got knocked up to a Meatloaf song instead.

I almost forgot the writing dream in the ensuing years.

Newborn babies that kept coming. Two AM feedings. Colic. Stretch marks. Mastitis and ice in my bra.

Then I took the writing dream and I hid it deep. Because the boy I married was made out of mean. He wanted to own every part of me. And the things he couldn’t own, he destroyed. So I buried my writing dream.

Then I got divorced and I dug that sucker up.

And I wrote. Blog posts at first mostly. I wrote and I waited to feel like a Real Writer.

At first I thought: Well, I’ll be a Real Writer when more than 3 people read my blog. Or when someone outside of my family says: Hey, Janine, your writing doesn’t suck.

I got 30 followers. I waited to feel like a Real Writer.

I got 40 followers. People outside of my family began saying: Hey, Janine, your writing doesn’t suck.

I waited to feel like a Real Writer.

50 followers.

60 followers.

Still didn’t feel it.

Then I began playing the “I’ll Be A Real Writer When” game.

I’ll be a Real Writer when I have an MFA.

When I have my picture on a dust jacket.

When I have my shit together.

When I learn to type.

When I get paid.

When I understand my writing process.

When I have an actual writing process.

On and on.

When I am actually published. Not self published.

Then I was actually published.

I screamed. I stepped on a cat. I had a toilet brush in my hand.

I waited to feel like a Real Writer.

Nada.

Maybe that one essay was a fluke?

So I wrote a second essay. It, too, was published. It won the Freshly Pressed award from WordPress.

It went viral.

And I waited to feel like a Real Writer.

I was invited to go to Vermont to a writing retreat. With actual Real Writers.

My inner voice screamed: Janine, what the actual fuck are you doing??

I went to Vermont and I waited to feel like a Real Writer.

I kept submitting to different online sites while I waited to feel like a Real Writer.

I’ll be a Real Writer when I have an essay published in print. When I can hold my words literally in my hands.

When I can touch my name on a paper byline, I’ll be a Real Writer.

I got published in print.

I held my essay literally in my hands.

I touched my name on a paper byline.

And I waited to feel like a Real Writer.

I sat in an Italian restaurant across from a Real Writer. She was every bit as luminous as her words. She took my breath away.

She looked at me and she said: Janine, your writing doesn’t suck. Or maybe she just said: Janine, pass the parmesan cheese. I was awestruck and leaving my body.

I sucked harder on my Long Island Iced Tea.

And I waited to feel like a Real Writer.

How about this?

I wrote constantly during that summer.

I felt nothing like a Real Writer.

Because surely a Real Writer would know what works and what doesn’t?

That essay got published on a site I’d coveted. Dreamed of. It was the brass ring of online publications.

I pinched myself to make that feel real.

And I waited to feel like a Real Writer.

Here’s what I’ve learned:

The real writers don’t necessarily have their shit together.

Some will have an MFA.

Some won’t.

They will all have different voices.

They will all have a different writing process.

Or maybe they won’t have a writing process at all.

I think the thing that makes a writer real. Is the words.

The words they are willing to lose sleep and maybe a little bit of sanity for.

The words they will do anything for.

It’s not about the money for the real writers.

It’s about the words.

It’s always about the words.

And not giving up on the words.

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Janine Canty is a human trying to pose as a writer. She doesn’t believe she makes words happen. Words make her happen. Her online work has appeared on The Manifest-Station, Literary Orphans, The Rumpus, The Weeklings, and Sweatpants & Coffee. She has an in-print essay featured in the literary journal The Dandelion Review. She lives in Northern Maine and can be found on Facebook.

I Am A Genius Writer In The Night Hours As Proven By These 3 AM Ruminations Gifted By The Muse And Recorded On My Notes App

February 1, 2017 § 13 Comments

zsarahbroussardweaverBy Sarah Broussard Weaver

When I wake in the night to pee, I am often blessed by thoughts that are, quite frankly, genius-level. They just flow into my brain like manna from Heaven. I must then decide whether or not to blind myself by unlocking my brightly backlit phone and jotting them in my Notes app.

Sometimes I choose to spare my eyeballs, and the world loses these priceless ruminations. I apologize for my failings in this area, and to make up for it, I am sharing some of my actual notes, which are mind-blowing and may make the world implode when they are released, pure and unadulterated, into so many minds at once.

These are presented just as they flowed down to me, so they are perfect and not misspelled or otherwise flawed. Respect the Muse. If you use any as a writing prompt, please send a small token of your gratitude. I do accept PayPal.

  1. In those nights if waking sweating and shoving off blankets to be turned cold and shivering
  2. Ideas for what happened to trumps something
  3. Dad is missing link
  4. Brain doesn’t make connections roads maps oh how did we end up here?
  5. Trump America rules- dead rat hair sexiest
  6. It’s quite right then I something it’s kind of right that something it’s not right at all that something
  7. Here comes a jelly roll all dressed up and ready to go
  8. Adraid of world never been in by hone school
  9. Things I’m surprised the president has not gotten defensive about- hair etc
  10. potato chip walls
  11. Beautiful names for ugly things bluebottle fly cabbage rose opposite?
  12. Lit critmy life
  13. Maybe c mixed with bup and sert
  14. Leaky vessel making drops of life
  15. I can’t tell how much is passing I keep staring at my burge
  16. He says affected him sleepingly
  17. This busy world writing is what makes me know what I think, because I think these things and I don’t have anyone to say them to for everyone is busy and we’re all busy really that my notebook or laptop is always there when I have time to try to figure out what it is that makes us human or that makes me long for thaT

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Sarah Broussard Weaver’s essays have been published in Hippocampus, Full Grown People, The Nervous Breakdown, and The Bitter Southerner, among others. She graduated last month from University of Portland, and is now a nervous MFA applicant who refreshes her email too often. Find her at sbweaver.com or tweet her @sarahbweaver.

Going to the Well

August 3, 2016 § 12 Comments

4679c66b8b81ea1b1b55fb3e755fa243Sitting down to write the Brevity blog today, I found myself at a loss for “inspiration.” Meaning, “that feeling when an idea shows up and you’re excited about it enough to get to work.” I felt sorry for myself and got kind of whiny, but then I remembered my writer friend Lindsay Price’s favorite saying whenever the work feels tough: “It’s not coal-mining.” No matter how hard my little fingers are typing, I’m above the ground in climate-controlled comfort and in a chair.

Lindsay’s an incredibly prolific playwright, and she’s been writing full-time for almost twenty years. Because she sits down every day. Because she keeps her eyes open on the world for what her readers/actors care about, stocks up on ideas, and makes conscious choices to start work instead of waiting for the work to start her.

As a writer, it’s not my job to be inspired–it’s my job to sit down and write. It’s my job to collect links to essays and articles I think might interest our readers, to note ideas on scraps of paper and in my phone, so I have something to write about whether I’m “inspired” or not. To fill up a well of ideas, so I can drink when it’s not raining inspiration.

In an interview with The Splendid Table, indie rap queen Dessa responds to the question, “Where do the lyrics come from?”

…I’m not completely sure. I think sometimes it feels as I grow older, and you’ve had more bouts of inspiration and more dry spells, it feels more like kinda catching a wave than it does going to a well. So when you feel that a good lyric day is happening to you, it’s like, OK, what can I get off my calendar today, ‘cause I don’t get these every day. So you’re standing at the place lightning struck last time, but it’s still a game of odds and chance…it’s something that I don’t understand completely.

One of the things I’ve learned from writing here is that I don’t have to wait for lightning to strike. I can go to the well, and going to the well every week starts to create its own wave, as if each bucket I throw into the reservoir makes a tiny ripple, and the more buckets I carry, the wider the ripples spread until I can start to surf them, flow with the ideas that form themselves into words and appear on the page like dirty magic.

But the first bucket sucks. It’s always got some shitty, splintery handle and a hole in the side and it’s exactly the right size to bang into my leg and leave bruises all over my knees. The first bucket is my so-called ‘writer buddy’ working a three-day weekend and then his biological mom comes into town for his birthday and WHERE’S MY FUCKING WRITING DATE YOU GODDAMN TRAITOR?

The first bucket is making too big a writing schedule and being pretty sure I’ll fail at it. Because making a schedule means I can trade the excuse of “I’m a great writer, I’m just lazy” for “I’m a great writer, I just take on too much.”

It’s the bucket of You Would Not Believe How Much I Can Cross Off My To-Do List Before I Sit Down to Write the First Word. Yeah, that one’s on sale this week, so I stocked up. My floors are spotless.

It’s hard to remember that the buckets get better. Lighter. Easier to fill, the path to the reservoir shortening once I know the landmarks. That I don’t have to be under pressure to make a deadline in order to write. That the most successful and published writers I know are not waiting around for the wave to lift them up, they’re carrying buckets every day. They are not praying for inspiration or agonizing about the meaning of creativity, they’re mining the goddamn coal.

We don’t all have the same amount of time, but we can all remember to use our time regardless of our level of inspiration. Stock up on water when we can. Pour it into the empty, cavernous reservoir, bucket by bucket. Trusting we’ll make some ripples, trusting they’ll make some waves.
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Allison K Williams is Brevity‘s Social Media Editor. Her new book, Get Published In Literary Magazines, comes out August 20th.

 

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