Are you a real writer? The sure way to find out...

It's 9:24 a.m.

I have to leave at 10:00 to drive a deeply depressed friend to her therapy appointment. I am in the middle of writing one of my long, thoughtful, typical essay-type posts, which my friend Ronni Lundy calls "blongs." I left it, and began writing this instead.

I have a bowl of Irish oatmeal beside me, cooked with diced apples, which melt to creaminess as the oats cook, studded with pieces of medjool dates, which also soften to caramel-like bits, added in the last few minutes. The bowl, brown and grey pottery, with visible finger-rings, was thrown by my late husband. If I lifted it up I'd see, on its bottom, his scratched-in signature: Ned Shank, 1971. Stirred into the finished Irish oatmeal is a heaping teaspoon of almond butter, and a drizzle of maple syrup, from the trees tapped by my nearest neighbor, here in Vermont.

I am going to see if I can write an actual short blog post, and get it done before I hop into the car to do my mission of mercy, which I both want, deeply, to do, and am slightly irritated at having to do (I have been hanging in there with my depressed friend for many months now. It's getting old. But I am ridiculously loyal, to my friend, and stubborn;  insistent, internally, that I know this is part of her life process, and mine, and that she and I will get through it, and that it will someday have meaning).

I am trying to finish this because nothing in the universe, that I have found, makes me feel as "God's in heaven and all's right with the world," as writing, particularly when I finish a piece. (I accidentally wrote, and just found and corrected, "all's write with the world.")

I have 50 published books out: all with name, traditional publishers: HarperCollins (Harper & Row when they published me), Simon and Schuster, Macmillan (now also part of Simon and Schuster), Charles Scribners (now defunct), Workman. And I have one coming out with Little, Brown (leading at times to peculiar, hilarious, but truthful statements like, "I'm going in to have lunch with the Little Brown people tomorrow.") 

But I don't believe, in my heart of hearts, that I am a real writer until I have written that day. That day, being each day. Being today.

It's the holidays. Should I go to a party that is large enough so that I don't know everyone and strike up conversation with a stranger, it is likely at some point he or she will say, "So, what do you do?"

And I will say, "I'm a writer."

"Oh," he or she will say. And then that subtle shift in tone. "Published?"

Meaning, are you a real writer or an amateur, just futzing around. Meaning, where do I put you on the one-up one-down scale. Should I be impressed (are you famous? have I heard of you?), interested and slightly respectful (oh, you write a column for the Brattleboro Reformer which I may have read) or merely polite (how interesting, excuse me while I get another deviled egg).

I say yes when so asked, because I am a published writer, after all. Yes. True. But if I haven't written that day, I feel, in my heart of hearts, like a hypocrite.

The outside world, in the form of real and imaginary people at cocktail parties, teachers, parents, and siblings, will tell you, directly and indirectly, that a real writer equals a published writer.

Except every writer was at some point an unpublished writer. And even every published writer returns periodically to being unpublished, during the time they are writing.

This is so obvious. Except, evidently, it isn't.

Twitter is a medium I use (I'm @cdragonwagon) and simultaneously like and loathe, in part because the same limitation of characters that forces you to be succinct and pithy also forces you to write "U" for "you" at times.

Here's the one sentence version of this post, as I put it on Twitter a few days back:  "Act of writing makes U 'real' writer. O,U thought it was publication? In his lifetime,Van Gogh sold O paintings; was he a 'real' artist?"

I said above, vis a vis the location where I feel like a phony if I haven't written on the day --- any day --- when I'm asked about being a writer if I haven't written that day, "in my heart of hearts."

By which I mean, in that interior True North by which one steers; to which, if one is true, one feels in alignment, living life with purpose and integrity.

Veer a few degrees from that compass point, and one becomes a hypocrite in one's own eyes, whether or not the world notices (and it usually won't, until the degrees are so many that the degree of offness is blindingly evident).

At least I feel that way if I deviate by even a couple of degrees.

But not today.

For now it is 9:50 a.m. And though I have not finished my oatmeal, I have written.

Like one of the ads for one of the airlines used to say, "We earn our wings each day."

Today I earned my wings: I wrote. Therefore, I am a real writer.

It's a relief.

9:55 a.m.

All I have to do is hit "publish" and I will both a real and a published writer.

Again. Until tomorrow.

Comments

[Mysti Easterwood]

Lovely! My first thought *every* morning for many years was :: "When will write today?" About 2 years ago I sheathed my pen to focus on my teenage son -- who was spinning out a little harder than we were expecting (being that he had the cool parents and all). He seems to settling into the idea of really managing his own life, so 2012 will be devoted to reviving my writing/dissage practices. Your voice - steady, musing, meticulous - has a calming effect on my nervous nelly, who is prancing at the gate. 'Writing my wings' daily is not yet possible, but thank you for reminding me what that *feels* like.

Attentively yours,

Myst

[Joycee]

Oh so good and satisfying too, just like the oatmeal! I write, but I'm not a writer. It's one of my favorite things to do so I'll call it a hobby! Thank God for the real writers like you who inspire me, open my eyes and my mind. I have that same sense of "alls right with the world" after reading something with substance.

[Mendy Knott]

Beautifully done. So important for the as yet unpublished writer to know they are "real" writers because they write. The act of writing, of practicing make them as much writer as publishing. And if they don't get published in this lifetime, then they are more writer than most; keeping at it without the reward, or prestige, or whatever you wind up with. Thanks for this.

[Msw@scottwatersdesign.com]

I am reaching out across the county to give you a hug, my friend. Lovely, warming post. Thank you!

Marilyn.

[Crescent]

Thank you, Marilyn. LOVE those hugs! And I can feel it from here...

[Crescent]

Mendy, thank you. It is my privilege to be able to get to remind others (and have some, like you, hear it) ... just as it is part of my own inner personal work to remind myself over and over. To write, I mean... every day.

[John Dahlgren]

I applaud you for "hanging in there" with your friend. Depression is like being on deserted island waiting for the rescue ship to come. For your friend you are the hope that tomorrow the ship will come. And today I am a writer because I posted on my blog about my own journey through mental illness. Thanks for helping your friend and being such a darned good writer and cook.

[Crescent]

Thank you, John. I went over and read your blog (and commented there, too).

Sometimes readers wonder about why/how one can write material that is revelatory personally.(Maybe less now, in the age of memoir, but still, I do occasionally get asked about this). Your comment makes it so clear why transparency just... is. Must be. Should be. "We are all lost people in this world. Do we need introduction?"

[Crescent]

Joycee! If you write, you're a writer. Don't make me get tough, now! I MEAN it, as anyone who knows me will tell you.

Just to get slightly tough... we all conspire with our own self-diminishment. We all have to remind each other to stop it.

[Luna]

What a wonderful share. First, I will be trying my oatmeal with some new additions! Second, you really laid it out and it's true. Whatever you really are, you don't feel it unless you did it that day. Charming and heartfelt, as always!

[Crescent]

Thank you, dear Luna (fellow moon sister)... This method, though good with regular oatmeal, is unbeLIEVably good with the nice texture-y slow-cooking Irish oats (like McCann's). Glad you felt it was true... we just can't coast on the big stuff in this life, or I can't, without feeling fake. xxoo

[Theresa Rogers]

Oh I am SO familiar with that little sideways glance, the "And have you been published?" fishing, it's exactly as you wrote. I remember when I decided to start calling myself a writer--I'd been writing for ten years and it took me months before I didn't feel like a fraud. Really! What other profession/passion/calling makes people hesitate to proclaim it? I don't see people asking doctors with that glance, "And have you ever saved anyone?" "Oh, no, not yet, but when I do, then, THEN I'll be a real doctor!" (The very thought makes me laugh.)

And yet I took myself as a writer a bit more seriously after my first piece was published. "Oh, whew. Now I'm legit." So I did it too, although looking sideways at myself took some doing.

LOVE the comment about Picasso. Yup, that about sums it up. Do you write to get published? You won't for long. It's only when words sing down your veins and you can't make it through the day without putting some to paper that you get a taste of what it means to "be a writer." Of course, the true test is when those singing words lose their voice and you sit there anyway, writing through the silence, knowing you're writing crap but knowing, too, that the only way out is through. Maybe that's when you really know you're a writer.

And this is the fourth thing I've written today. I love that guide, as well. Have I earned my wings today?

[Theresa Rogers]

And here's a little something inspired by another bit you wrote...

http://theresarogersonline.com/

Happy Valentine's Day!

~Theresa

[Crescent]

You have not only earned your wings, Theresa, you've added a little and much-needed upward draft under mine today. I just posted/linked your piece on the need for such periods on my FB wall, w this comment: "HONORED to be mentioned by, or to have helped inspire or prod towards her own wise articulation, writer Theresa Rogers, in her exploration of the necessity of suckiness in writing, and sucky times in life, as part of the process. Needed to hear this myself today. (As bad as it has sometimes gotten for me, however, Theresa, I've NEVER contemplated a career in math.) "

And you are so right: "the true test is when those singing words lose their voice and you sit there anyway, writing through the silence, knowing you're writing crap but knowing, too, that the only way out is through."

THANK YOU!!!!

[Theresa Rogers]

You are so welcome. And yes, you can take all the credit, you did inspire that whole post!

Better than being published is knowing something you wrote made a difference in someone's life. Thank you for letting me know I achieved that goal.....today. :)

[Tim Wilson]

Crescent, as I'm writing this I'm listening to the radio spot you did with Tom Ashbrook on NPR. You are a gem and I love your topic because I think beans are GREAT for people and the planet. The impact goes beyond what most would think.

OK, a question. I bought the domain "CrescentDragonwagon.com partly because people look up your name and exact match domains like this are usually pretty east to get ranked on the search engines. I thought I would do a site listing your books and such. Before I do that, out of courtesy I thought I'd offer you the opportunity (if you wanted it) to get that domain for yourself. No, I wouldn't be trying to make a lot of money on it but contact me if you want. Otherwise, I'd like to use it. I wish you the BEST and thanks for doing what you are doing with such lovely personality. If you do respond, put your name Crescent on the Subject line so I know to pay attention to it. Thanks.

[Charles]

Just came back to read this again after your FB post.

Your patience and steadfastness with your depressed friend touched me along with the acknowledgment of the irritation.

Vic, my life mate of 22 yrs, and I have taken care of his mother for most of those years. Perhaps some of it is culture (Thai/Chinese) but in a house of three adults and three precious dogs, I end up being #7 with her.

It was so long in coming, but I recently began seeing her as a gift, a reminder to live my unconditional love. What a difference it makes not only with Pranee but in life in general.

I love it that your style take us with you into your personal dialogues when you're writing in-the-moment. It reminds me of Thomas Jefferson's letter called My Head and My Heart which he wrote to Maria Cosway from Paris. It's not a short read but such a privilege to read something so intimate of his. It's too bad he didn't leave us with a similar dialogue over his beliefs about equality and that he was a participant in a slave-holding society.