I have been thinking a lot about writing lately; which is funny, as far as you’re concerned I haven’t written anything in two weeks. For the most part, I haven’t—save a few journal entries about tarot cards and technical documents concerning inventory systems. I signed up for a weekly writing prompt three weeks ago; I know it was three weeks ago because I have three unread emails from the creator in my inbox. I read the prompts and tell myself I’ll make time for them tomorrow, marking them unread until then.
I own so many books on writing. I decided, at the age of about six, that I wanted to be a writer. My favorite section at Barnes & Noble was books on books and writing. In elementary school I read Writers Express (imagine an elementary school version of CMOS) cover-to-cover. I took a community college English class when I was thirteen so the next summer I could take their creative writing class. I went to sleepaway camp for writing in eleventh grade. I was an English major with a concentration in Creative Writing. The other night, at a cocktail party meant to introduce booksellers to a half dozen authors about to publish, I was asked if I was also a writer. I hesitated, mumbled, mentioned this newsletter, took a sip of my drink.
Guys, why can’t I call myself a writer?
My best guess? I don’t make time for writing anymore. My dream of getting published has been nudged aside in favor of my dream of opening a bookstore. And when I get home after a long day of selling other writers’ work (or tracking down an obscure special order, receiving frontlist, creating spreadsheets, and explaining how to get to my bookstore from I-5) I have to make myself dinner and get to bed at a decent hour. And on the weekends I just want to read and cross-stitch; any willpower available to me is spent grocery shopping, doing laundry, calling my insurance company—generally being an adult.
I spend all my time thinking about how I want to get back into writing and none of it actually writing. So, do I actually want to be a writer? Maybe my issue is, despite knowing people who pursue or juggle multiple identities, I can’t see myself as both bookseller and writer. I know plenty of booksellers who are also writers. But I guess I think of them as writers who are selling books until they can make their writing career sustainable. But I’m selling books until I can make a small business of my own sustainable.
And yet. I continue to purchase books on writing. Just last year I spent a few hundred dollars on a writing class. I don’t want to let that identity go, but I also don’t seem to want to feed it. It feels kind of like how I can’t stop buying books, but never actually read half of them. (At least in that scenario I’m still reading books, just not the ones already on my shelves.)
So, okay. What do I do? Do I change my definition of writing? This, right here, is certainly writing. And for a good few weeks I was doing it once a week. I feel like I ought to set aside time every day to write, if I really want to be a writer; but that seems nearly impossible—besides going to work and feeding myself, there is nothing in my life I’m able to find time for every day. (And, actually, I only go to work five of the seven days in a week.) Still, once a week feels just like a hobby. Twice a week to start? This and something that perhaps never sees another readers eyes?
Here we come up against another hill. I don’t know what to write about. When I was a teenager, I was obsessed with Sarah Dessen, so I wrote YA. In college, I was introduced to Kelly Link, so I wrote weird short stories. These days, I’ve been reading a lot of essay collections and thinking about trying my hand at that. This whole entry (essay?), in fact, was inspired by How to Write an Autobiographical Novel, an essay collection by Alexander Chee. So many of his essays are about writing, and they’ve been making my brain itch.
Since this is a newsletter where you’ve come to expect at least some mention of books, here are five other books on writing I’ve been meaning to read:
The Writing Life by Annie Dillard
Because the essay where Chee talks about her class made me want to go back to school for writingDreyer’s English by Benajmin Dreyer
Because my boss told me it made her think of me, and that I’d like itMeander, Spiral, Explode by Jane Alison (out April 2nd)
Because it’s purporting to be a different kind of writing guideThrill Me by Benjamin Percy
Because he seems to focus on melding genre and “literary” fictionBecoming a Writer by Dorthea Brande
Because Hilary Mantel (whom I’ve never read) says it’s the only writing advice manual you really need
I guess what I mean to do, in sending you this, is two-fold. One, I’m telling you that I want to write more, that I mean to pick it back up, and I’m hoping by doing so I’ll feel just a little bit more accountable to someone besides my own brain. Two, I’m asking you to send along any recommendations of books/prompts or advice you might have for getting back in to something and sticking to it. I appreciate the help. Promise to be back next week with more books I wish I were reading.