If You Write, You're a Writer

About a month ago I was invited to have lunch with a couple of seventh graders at the community school. I’d shown interest in the mentoring program after seeing a flyer at the library. Introducing me, the program director called me a writer. I shuttered at the label.

“I didn’t go to school for it or anything…” I trailed off. “But I wrote a book. And it was published. It’s at the library. A lot of people have read it…”

It was my natural reaction: balking at praise, compliments, or, in this case, (what I considered) a superlative label. Surely, I’m not A Writer. I was embarrassed.

I was also embarrassed at my awkwardness. One boy (the more outgoing boy) perked up at the word—Writer—a hopeful, youthful, authentically interested look in his eyes. He was impressed, and that was weird for me—I didn’t deserve his admiration.

These are the actions and reactions in my mind. They seem perfectly reasonable in there—in the dark, without outside interpretation. I (we) don’t usually give them a second thought.

“If you write, you’re a writer. What do you need, a guy in a suit in an office to validate you?!”

A compelling point from my therapist. And I didn’t have an answer; well, maybe I did, but I was embarrassed to say Yes. Impostor syndrome: at what point does the thing you do become the person you are?

She opened a whole can of worms with that; one I’m trying to process right now—in writing, in this piece. It might take a while, and I’m not sure I can change. I’m not sure it—what she’s implying: genuine confidence, or, at least, self-worth—would ever feel normal, feel natural. I’m not sure I’ll ever feel it.

***

I’ve received a lot of praise for my book. For the writing, mostly, but also for the achievement. Having a book in print, on the shelf—people are impressed. I always play it cool: I explain the process; I point out that it’s essentially self-published; I tell them—some of them—they could do it—if only they had the time. I diminish the accomplishment. I diminish myself.

I wrote out a long explanation—How to Start Writing a Memoir: 14 Tips for Starting your Memoir—for a website called Writer’s Hive. It’s long. Surely, with a map and directions, anyone could do what I’ve done. (I do seem to be comfortable giving advice; I’m not sure what that means. Belief in a level of competence is implied—you’d think that would translate.)

Actually, let’s explore that. I tend to believe that many people could do a wide variety of things if given the opportunity. Maybe I’m discounting motivation; certainly, effort is a big factor—maybe the biggest factor—in any undertaking. The gap between could accomplish and have accomplished is quite wide indeed. So much so that could hardly matters. “I could write a book,” is a meaningless statement.

I don’t see myself as exceptional. I don’t see most people as exceptional. I’m not prone to hero worship, nor do I think I could ever feel like a hero—or better than anyone else.

I’m a humanist: I think people are people. I think we are mostly a product of our environment. I believe there are connections between all and feel empathy as a result. When I see the two addicts in withdrawal—one in the fetal position on the bus bench; both with hoods pulled tightly over their heads—drag themselves onto the morning bus to the methadone clinic (I’m assuming; the driver seemed to know), I don’t think, Look at those scumbags (separating myself from them); I feel for them (connecting with them).

That’s how I choose to see the world, and I believe, objectively, that it’s the correct way to see the world. But I guess I’m off track. Why do I feel the need to explain away my accomplishments?

***

When I was in 7^th to about 9^th grade, I was obsessed with my alto saxophone. I’d been playing the clarinet from 6^th grade and, about halfway through 7^th, switched to the sax. (I played them both for a while, but began to neglect the clarinet and soon dropped it altogether.)

I distinctly remember opening the case and staring at the brassy, shiny saxophone—mine—in pieces in its case. I was making up riffs right from the start, jamming in the basement. I can still hear the first one, and remember its fingerings. No one needed to tell me to practice; more likely, I’m go out to the garage to give Mom a break. From those first simple unison songs we played—“Now’s the Time” and “Mr. P.C.” come to mind—I was hooked on jazz band—and improvising. I was Lisa Simpson with an alto.

When I think of my life—as one often does in my circumstance—my skill on the saxophone, at that time, is a standout. It may have been the thing I was best at; more than anything else (I was also one of five students to skip pre-algebra and take algebra with the 9^th graders in the 7^th, but that brought more bullying than acclaim), it’s where I stood out from the others. And after performances, I’d get praised.

I never knew what to do with it. I didn’t know how to react. I was young, shy, and unaccustomed to such feedback. It was hard to believe I deserved it. When external praise is in excess to what you feel inside, it’s hard to accept.

Why was I unaccustomed to positive feedback? Boys at that age are mostly insults and put-downs—smart ass-ery—and my parents, well, I don’t feel like there was a lot of earnest verbal support in our household. My mom and mémère attended most every concert, and certainly voiced their approval, but I was often far too excited after shows to hear them, and to me, support from your mother was a given. The one thing I remember about the one show my dad attended—outside on Church Street during Burlington’s Jazz Fest—is a criticism. Not of me, and not entirely unwarranted, but not the lone memory I want.

I feel like in all aspects of my schooling, once I’d set expectations, nothing much was made of my achievements. I got all As and Bs (mostly As) in the accelerated classes, and I don’t remember much of a reaction. My parents (especially my dad) didn’t see me as a worker—they thought I was coasting on my intelligence. And maybe I was, to a degree—school certainly came easier for me than my brother—but I still had to do the work.

Ours was not a household of much discussion. Mom was always supportive—caring for our well-being in every way possible—but not as involved as many parents today (and maybe back then). She had boys; boys don’t want to talk. And Dad, Dad was on the moon. For a couple of those years he was in another state, our house up for sale as my parents contemplated moving to Maryland to follow a job. (Case in point: Nick and I—about 12 and 14—seemed on a need-to-know basis with this life-changing decision. I don’t remember much of anything about it.)

I grew up without the emotional support I now recognize we all need. Nick and I talked a lot, but almost never about anything vulnerable. Friends were no place for that, especially in all-male groups we hung out in; even one on one, I don’t think I ever opened up. And my parents, they still don’t approach anything that might elicit emotion. For most of my life, I didn’t know there was another way; I didn’t know we could—and should—talk about the things on our minds.

***

Every time I sit down to write one of these, I’m not sure where it will go. That’s kind of the nature of a thought experiment piece. I use them to process: I have to think things through to try and explain them to you. It’s a valuable tool.

Sometimes it’s easy and ideas emerge and resolve; other times, it can be a struggle. But in the in-between times, I’m never quite sure how I do it. It always seems like I won’t be able to pick up where I left off; writing doesn’t seem to build confidence in writing. At least not for me.

It’s the uncertainty that makes any creation worthwhile. I know this. I’ve heard writers say that it never gets easier, and I suspect that’s the point. It’s not about me, my identity, and self-worth. Instead, the existence of doubt, and the action of pushing through, is what makes me a writer. I’ll try to get used to that.

***

I just got a new five-star review on Amazon. Sorry, my memoir received the review. (I’m not sure there’s a difference; it doesn’t feel like there’s a difference.) I check my Amazon page almost daily, as one does a social media post or dating app: Looking for that little dopamine hit. Book sales are also validation: I check up on my Kindle sales at least once a day—25 in June. (I only receive paperback sales numbers on a quarterly basis, unless I email, and I’ve stopped emailing.) And blog views, and website traffic, and Twitter (yes, Twitter), Instagram, and Facebook reactions. Though I haven’t posted a TikTok in well over a year, I still check my account every so often (my getting out of bed video from March of ’23 is up over 109,000 views).

None of this is unusual, I know. But maybe it should be; I think I’d like it to be. I’d like to think that with more going on I’d be less focused on these things, but I know that’s not always—or even usually—the case. I guess we’re all looking for validation. Seemingly constantly. That seems sad.

***

The back of the book description of myself (which I wrote, in the third person) begins, “An athletic young professional…” I still cringe a bit at those words; I struggled to find the right ones. It sounds boasty.

But I was an athlete. And a professional. At what point does it sink in? At what point do actions and accomplishments become identity? Of all the things I’ve done in my life, I wouldn’t choose any of them to define me. I used to play a lot of golf, but I’ve never called myself a golfer. Same with skiing, and running, and a whole host of other things. I was only an amateur; surely, a runner is not just someone who runs, but someone who sees themselves as a runner. My brother was a runner.

I’m not sure what it takes to make that leap. Do other people feel they have to qualify their achievements? It seems like a small space between humble and self-deprecating, and conceited and braggadocious. A genuine, quiet confidence is correctly revered.

I’ve changed a lot since my ALS diagnosis, and especially since moving in with my parents. I’ve chosen to change. I’ve seen how I used to do things, used to think, used to be, and I’ve tried to be different—tried to improve. But some things (many things) are tough. Changing the way I see and interact with the world is one thing; changing the way I see myself is something else. If there’s one thing this life has taught me, it’s how to try—and keep trying.

***

I do feel pride in my book, and this blog, and think both deserve a wider audience. I know how much work I’ve put in, and have seen myself grow as a writer. And yet, the disconnect remains. I try to resist judging others; perhaps I shouldn’t assume they’re judging me.

Maybe that’s what it is—a part of it. The reason I was able to write my first book (I can’t help but laugh when someone calls it my “first” book, for reasons I’m trying to explain) is that there were no expectations. I put no expectations on myself; I just started writing. But with a label—calling myself A Writer—there are. And that’s a vulnerable position.

I’ve grown comfortable with vulnerability—in some ways. Some has been a choice, and some has been forced on me. Trying is easy with no expectations; it almost seems like cheating. Real vulnerability comes with a down side. It has to. That’s definitely a factor, but more exploration is needed, for sure.

To be continued. Maybe.