On a somewhat regular basis, I take Lorrie Moore’s collection, Self Help, off my shelf and read “How to Become a Writer.” It’s the first line I love:
“First, try to be something, anything, else.”
This is probably the best advice I’ve ever heard. Yes, perhaps it’s somewhat discouraging, humorously cynical, but that’s what being a writer will do to you.
I used to think a writerly life was romantic. After all, that’s how it’s portrayed in the movies. Even when the writer is lost in struggle and strife, sitting in front of an old typewriter, running his or her fingers through greasy hair, chain-smoking, downing bottles of whiskey, there is a kind of glamorous drama about it. All the insomnia and mood swings and tears and poverty seem to come with purpose, something that transcends the inevitably mundane nature of day-to-day existence and makes life seem creative and passionate and worthwhile.
But being a writer, dedicating one’s life to telling stories, is not all that romantic. There are rarely those epiphanies and breakthrough moments that lead to fame and fortune. Most of the writers I know have day jobs, first of all. They have to shower and try not to be alcoholics and pay their bills. That’s a big one — paying bills. What most new writers hate to hear is that making a living off fiction is a reality for about 1% of writers. Maybe less. For the rest of us, day jobs occupy hours that could be spent on stories, but afford us the security and freedom to write when we have precious moments of free time.
And, oh, those moments are precious.
The thing is that Lorrie Moore’s advice is based on hindsight. She has come far enough to see her errors in thinking that becoming a writer would involve endless fulfillment and fruitful creativity and inspiring praise. She has dealt with criticism and rejection. She has seen the business side of publishing, heard her works discussed in terms of marketability, had her words scrutinized. She’s learned that it’s not all about what you love, what you want to write. It’s also about “the reader” — this enigmatic conglomeration of critics that starts to occupy space in your brain and whisper that maybe you aren’t that talented. It’s about editing and revising, long after you’ve lost the initial spark that motivated you to write the piece. It’s about time management (and, seriously, what’s more boring than time management?). It’s about thickening your skin, warding off the extreme sensitivity that made you a good writer in the first place. It’s about learning to accept that, when you tell yourself, “I’m just not going to write anymore,” you’re lying.
>> Read all of Lorrie Moore’s “How to Become a Writer.”
Most of the writers I know are of the long struggling variety. Even the few I’ve met who are quite successful and are on the faculty at my university seem incredibly busy all the time. (I used to host a reading series and I felt guilty sending these folks e-mails because I knew it was cutting into their writing time).