This is a blog post I’ve had sitting in drafts for a while now, so I figured I should exercise it by sending it out. There are some not-so-nice things written here, but I’m the only one who reads this blog anyway, so who cares? Also, this blog is not edited and there are probably errors as it was a stream-of-consciousness thing.
As I begin this, I do not know how long this will end up being. It’s a Sunday afternoon and I am going to see a movie soon. I know this introduction may seem ominous but don’t worry, there is no danger. I’m just going to talk a little about some feelings I have been having about my writing, both the process and the product itself. This may end up being quite mean and a little self-absorbed. So if the possibility of me being a little self-centered is going to make you angry, then I advise you to skip this one. (future Aisling note: ALSO THIS IS LOOOOONG.)
Since I can remember, I have had issues with self-doubt, jealousy, self-sabotage, and raging imposter syndrome. I know these are not things one may like to admit about one’s self, but in the fashion of true self loathing am painfully aware of these traits in myself. I have not been the kindest person to myself or others for a variety of reasons. But with a lot of therapy (I’m talking years) I have become a little better at controlling these less-than-savory things in my makeup. But sometimes, when art and writing are involved, all my therapy training flies out the window. Writing is by far the most healthy and yet still damaging thing I do for myself.
Now, I know I am not alone here. I have many friends who are also writers or creatives who feel this same paradoxical mixture of pain and pleasure. It’s almost a meme in the author community that you fly between absolute ecstasy and the most horrific pain while writing a book. Moving back and forth between the two states like a pendulum, with a blade mounted to it, forever inching closer and closer to its victim. But surprise, not only are you the instrument of death, but also the person it will eventually kill. Most of the time, you don’t die, but sometimes it feels like you might. I know this sounds dramatic, but for some writers, it is that serious. I am one of those people.
I have wanted to be a storyteller since I was two years old. I made little “books” with my scribbled gibberish writing. I made them with covers of construction paper and notebook paper on the inside. I also wanted to be an astronomer for a long time, too. Actually, I still do and I’m considering taking some college astronomy classes. For me, writing a book about the planets or space was a goal I held in high regard as a child. I found space to be a beautiful open-ended place. So most of my first stories were space-oriented or Alice in Wonderland adjacent. I loved writing stories more and more as time passed. I wrote my own plays when I was four. I also made costumes out of scraps of fabric and paper. In first grade, we had “The Publishing Shop” in our school. For special projects or particularly good stories, your teacher could send you to “The Publishing Shop”. There your story was handwritten or sometimes they would help you type it and print it out and it was bound into a book. For the covers, some mothers who volunteered there had brought in tons of old rolls of wallpaper samples and old magazines. They would make something that was really very janky looking, but to me, it was almost like really being published. I was completely hooked. The feeling of having that physical “book” in my hands, that I had written. It was the best I had ever felt.
I had mental health and physical health issues as a child, and writing, imagination, and reading were my ways of escaping the issues I was having. I had no interest in children my age and I was writing these plays because it disappointed me with how plays they forced me to do with my peers. To me, it was dumb, and no one had the genuine spirit of drama or acting in them. I remember being enraged at nursery school that I had to play a lamb while others got larger roles and did a shit job at it. I was convinced that other people were weird, too. I felt almost no connection to anyone my age. (Until I finally met another girl when I was 10 who was as creative as I was and also very tolerant of my oddness.) I wrote stories that allowed me to be important, respected, and physically strong. But I also wrote stories about almost anything you can imagine. A lot of fantasy and sci-fi seemed to be my trusted favorites. I played very imaginative story-driven games once I finally had a good friend. We would write things, and draw comics, and she, like me, loved stories. I shared my stories with others and I got fantastic feedback from this. Soon, people wanted to be characters in the world that my friend and I had created.
In Middle School, my teacher asked me to join, “Power of the Pen”. It’s a writing competition for 7th and 8th graders. She had noticed my love of writing because every Friday she would put a prompt on the board and we had to write a story that included or reflected the prompt. This was my favorite thing in school other than art class and choir. I was terrified to join because I was still having a lot of issues socializing, but I thought it would be great to write even more. I didn’t care about winning, I just wanted to write. So I went to the first meeting. The other two girls bullied me so badly that I went home and cried for hours, and I never returned. (The other two boys were fine.) I had to lie to my teacher several times until she eventually stopped asking me to come back. I still wrote my stories every Friday, and for better or for worse, the teacher often read my stories aloud, or I would volunteer to read my stories aloud. The other kids relentlessly teased me about this, but I couldn’t let go of the need to share the things I wrote. Back then, I didn’t want to admit it, but I also quit “Power of the Pen” because deep down, I felt my stories were too strange or not good enough.
I got into poetry when I was thirteen and immediately wrote some of the cringiest poetry you can imagine (not much has changed, I still write a lot of dumb poems lol...). But other people seemed to like this too. I also started writing short stories that were more based on reality. My eighth-grade English teacher called me up after class one day in concern over something I had written. The short story was about three friends who were in eighth grade. They used drugs, smoking weed first, then doing some coke, and then they all tried heroin. All of this takes place in the treehouse they played in together as kids. One day, the boy named “Andy” (named after the boy I had a crush on brother) tells them he had gotten a little more heroin. But when the other two, a boy and a girl, I cannot remember the names of show up at the treehouse, Andy is dead inside, having accidentally overdosed because he didn’t know what he was doing. In the story were some pretty detailed descriptions of drug use. My teacher, I guess, was concerned about this, and how I would know all of this. I told him the truth, the library, and a Vietnam War documentary I had seen on the History Channel that talked about and showed home movies of soldiers using drugs. He accepted the answer but called my parents. My parents knew I was a kid with one friend and I split most of my free time between writing and drawing, reading comics, and ballet. They were not worried.
In High School, I continued writing. I also worked on our school’s literary magazine and had pieces published in that. My English teacher for junior and senior years was my mentor, and maybe one day I’ll write about that. When you try to kill yourself in High School, at least back then they give you a mentor you worked with every week. My English teacher was the kindest man and encouraged me to publish my work. I had been writing novels since I was young, and in High School, those novels were getting to be the length of proper books. When I was eighteen, I published some poems in a few literary magazines. Then in college, I took writing classes, and when I went to art school, I minored in Creative Writing. I am planning to go back to school in 2024 for an English degree. All throughout this later time in my life, I got very good feedback from other students and professors about my work. A few students in my first creative writing class had me sign their copies of the story I submitted for group review.
“I want this for when one day you are a famous author.” One woman told me. I found the whole thing terribly embarrassing. Whenever people have done this to me, I feel uncomfortable. Everyone, except me, seems so certain I would excel, even become famous…put a pin in that. My teacher also doted on me and offered to help me try to get a literary agent and to connect me with another staff member who was an editor. My next writing teacher also advised me to pursue publishing, urging me not to self-publish, but to secure an agent. I tried to manage it by myself but found it overwhelming and was too embarrassed to request help. I had every single person rooting for me, encouraging me, offering to help me at this point. But I just didn’t do it.
I think a lot of my reasons are because I was afraid. I am a person who is afraid of failure, afraid to be seen as a “bad writer”. My stories were so important to me that even though I desperately wanted to share them with the world…I couldn’t. I felt imposter syndrome so hard in college. I went to art school, which was a great experience, but I only went because it seemed like less of a risk than writing did, which I realize sounds insane. I had initially been studying Computer Science with a minor in creative writing, but halfway through I went to Art School. Now I know that even though I love art, art extends my writing. Writing and stories will always be the core of everything I produce. Even my music, I really want it to tell stories I imagine. But also I had about 4 years where I was having a period of extreme illness and catatonic schizoaffective disorder and general executive dysfunction. Thankfully, I came out of that, and I woke up and realized all I’ve ever been is a writer. So I began to write with a serious intention of publishing.
This is where things get weird. I have very messy feelings when it comes to my own writing. On one hand, I figure I must be at least decent at it. Why would so many people lie? On the other hand, I’m a deeply mistrusting and skeptical person, and I have some trauma (long story for another time…) that sometimes leads me to believe everyone is lying about everything and anything to spare my feelings. But then logically I ask myself, “Why would strangers or anonymous people lie about enjoying your work?” If anything, wouldn’t they not waste the energy, or if they hated it they would most likely say something to that effect? We all know how cruel people on the internet can be. So I feel mixed up, muddled. I worry I am no better than writers whose writing I hate. Or worse, what if it’s just mediocre? Mediocrity is something that has scared me my whole life. I’ve always had the feeling that I would do something important that people enjoyed. But now, as I get older, I wonder if this was just a childish fantasy and I need to let this go.
I do not want to be famous or even extremely rich. I do not think I will ever be famous in this lifetime either. I just don’t feel that is something that will happen to me. That’s OK though, not terribly interested in all that. Obviously, if I get rich, that’s great, but I highly doubt that will ever happen. Status is important to me, to be a respected writer, but I need to do this all my way and be authentic. So it’s possible some people may not respect me because what people like to read is so subjective. That isn’t the end of the world, though. But I am sure of myself and incredibly unsure at the same time. It’s the pendulum again, swinging from rapture to terror over and over. I felt more confident before I started writing more. As I continue to write, I am starting to see the author and book world without all the shiny glossiness of my childhood dreams. I see ageism, racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, classism, and nepotism.
I see people getting opportunities and large reading audiences because they are attractive, not because they are talented. (I’m not saying attractive people cannot publish books, just saying that sometimes looks and celebrity are put before actual talent. For instance, Gabby Hanna's poetry.) In today’s world, the author needs to market themselves everywhere, all over social media. Social media is a very image-based thing, so of course being conventionally attractive helps. I miss the days when all but the most prominent authors were nothing but a photo on the back of a book or, of course, words on a page. I think it’s fine if authors want to have a media presence or do a book tour, but I feel like all the social marketing is impeding genuine talent from getting the recognition it deserves. I am not saying this out of spite, or because I’ve been unsuccessful, not at all. My poetry books sold well for what they are and how they came to be. I haven’t finished the book I plan to query yet, so I’m not bitter about too much rejection. I know that major literary icons sometimes gain fame not solely because of their writing but also because of their personality and images. I know it’s true. Image always has and always will matter to some extent. Look, I also know there are people who are writing stars who aren’t in the public eye. Some writers are reclusive.
But sometimes I see books that are all style, no substance. Where the book itself is being judged on its ability to be shared on social media. I’m 100% certain this has happened with poetry books like those from Rupi Kaur or Amanda Lovelace. They are consumable in the most bland and unsatisfying way. Most of the poems are so generic and simple that anyone can ingest them. (If you enjoy them that’s great, this is how I feel about these sorts of poems,) But there is little conversation about more challenging poetry nowadays among the mainstream. I know these things are just examples of commercial success which has to appeal to many people, but I still find them to be diluting the definition of poetry, you can disagree if you would like, and I’m not gatekeeping poetry of course, I just find these sorts of poems are over-saturated now. I can’t lie though. I’ve felt a little jealousy towards some other famous writers, but usually not because I think they don’t deserve readers, but more towards some writers who are just so talented I cannot imagine being so gifted. I don’t feel jealous very often as I get older, but it’s still there, biting at the corners of me. But most of the time I fight it away by repeating all I can do is keep practicing.
Publishing has never been 100% fair, and there will always be brilliant work that is obscure, and the challenge for the reader is to look for books in unconventional spaces. But we cannot dismiss the fact that although things are getting better, 75% of writers are white. I being a white woman, obviously have an advantage, and if my books are not eventually accepted to make room for diverse voices, I honestly think I would be OK with that. But it’s not really the system that worries me so much. Sorry, that was just a side tangent.
I wonder if anyone will ever want to read the things I write. I also worry terribly about my stories not being understood or being taken in the correct context. Not because I write anything particularly complex, but rather that I write stories with darker subject matter. Especially the novel I’m currently writing for Nano, which deals with the personal responsibility of those who find themselves on the wrong side of history, not by their own choosing. The other major theme is the belief that you should try your best to support justice and goodness, no matter where you come from. There are some very upsetting things in this book, and my great despair would be if people thought somehow I was glamorizing these things, or I was using such themes in disrespectful ways. But again I try to tell myself to look to Literary Icons who have also suffered this fate. Lolita is not a romantic story, the Secret History is a satire, some do not understand Dune, and they often misinterpret even The Great Gatsby. I guess, though; it matters to me that people do not think I use the themes I do lightly. In the other book I’m trying to finish the final draft of there are so many triggers, but it’s a story I feel like I have to tell.
I think a major thing that makes me nervous about releasing my stories is one of the dominant themes my work deals with is obsession. I am by nature an obsessive person; I think many writers are. I obsessively categorize, collect, love, analyze, and fantasize. I am a very intense person. I wouldn’t call myself an overly emotional person, but a person who, on the contrary, feels deeply confused by much of the human experience. I seek to learn everything I can, though; I have obsessive curiosity. When I do things, I do them obsessively, it’s at times completely unhealthy. I also am a bit of a perfectionist in most things I try to do, and this includes writing. The thought of failure in my writing is so terrible that I feel like if that happens, I may cease to exist sometimes. It’s not emotional really, it’s just a process that I need to be alive. When I was catatonic and unable to create, that was what almost killed me.
I am not an overly friendly person really, although I mask this pretty well. But I do have a love language and that is to feed the world stories. Stories as books, art, or music, but most of all books and short stories. Even though I am rather anti-social, I also love to tell stories orally, as it often feels like the only thing I can give to others most of the time. This is my entire being, other than my love of my family, my role in my family, and a few close friends. So it’s only natural I think for me to talk about obsession and the nature and role of obsession as much as I do. So naturally I would feel obsessive about my writing and having people at least feel something when reading it. Even if it’s just a silly brief story that took them away for a moment, even if the feeling is hate. But it’s a very hard thing to be so vulnerable to my deepest feelings in life and obsession. I think having schizoaffective disorder makes me a little paranoid, too. I worry about being seen as insane and again being forced into a hospital. Of course, that is very dramatic. I don’t write about anything THAT fucked up, but my anxiety disorder makes nonsense seem very threatening. So my obsession about my obsessions about writing about obsession is sometimes just a little too much for me to think through.
But one thing I would say I am not a real jerk, is I love my artist and writer friends. Even though I have read that many authors are competitors with each other, both Murakami and King say it’s hard for writers to be friends, because of the competition, I have found this not to be true. Maybe it’s because I don’t really write in the same genre as many of my writer friends, or maybe it’s truly that my love for them eclipses any harsh jealousy. I admire many things about my friend’s work, and a playful jealousy does happen. An example is a close friend of my is very good at being concise, which obviously I am not gifted in this skill. I’m jealous, but it isn’t that deep nasty jealousy. I want them all to succeed, they are all so amazingly talented. As much as I complained earlier about certain writers having an advantage due to their image, most writers, like 99% of them are like me, just hustling to try to survive, and not only do I feel a kinship with that, but also I feel sympathy. In my opinion, a perfect world would be one where every writer has an audience for their work. So I had to say in this now mammoth blog, that I love my friends and they have been nothing but kind, and seriously they are some of the hardest working people I know.
Will I ever really publish? I hope so. I know this has been a long complaint, and some of it I know is petty. But I just wanted to clear my head a little bit.
SO….that’s the end of my angry weird rant. Back to normal programming next blog!