When Did You Become a Real Writer?
Okay, I have a confession to make. (Don't I usually?) When Spanish Disco came out three years ago, my first novel (can you believe it was only three years and change ago?--January 2003), I flew to NYC for the Red Dess Ink cocktail party and then dinner. When I walked into the cocktail party, there hung my cover on a poster! And some actual copies of the book though it wasn't in stores yet. It was fun, thrilling--but definitely didn't feel real.
My next trip, in January, for a book signing, Spanish Disco was in Cosmpolitan magazine, which declared it "hilarious." I was in Manhattan, in Duane Reed (a drugstore chain in NYC). I was buying my favorite candy (Necco's), bottled water, and, having just heard this news from my editor, two copies of Cosmo. I stood on line, flipped to the page--there in a beautiful box they touted my new book. It felt strange. I called my friend and said, "Guess where I am?" (Yes, an annoying person standing on line talking on my cellphone). I told her the news. Called my dad (always do when something cool happens). But it felt . . . odd.
I can recount a hundred stories. Signings, conferences, parties, reviews, US Weekly (twice!), American Girl magazine, Woman's World, newspapers . . . fan emails, fan letters, fan stalker (a tale for another day). But I always told people it was my "fake" life. I didn't feel connected to it at all. I would say there was about a 20% chance I would tell you I was a writer if I met you. Maybe less than 20%. I saw book after book in stores. MY books. With my name (or pen name) on the cover. I turned the pages. Yeah . . . those were my words. I wrote them. I got a TV deal (still can't tell you all the details yet). Still not real.
What was real? My kids, my life, my laundry pile. My poker games, my sushi place, my best friend, my struggles as a human being. My periods of grief and stress, my periods of bliss and joy. The birth of baby number four. Sleepless nights and coffee-fueled days. My secret dreams--which have nothing to do with writing. But being an author didn't feel real.
Until, oddly enough, yesterday. I was putting the finishing touches on BLOOD SON, a February 2007 release. And I was writing a brutal rape scene. In fact, it was so brutal that I was having a hard time with it, imagining how readers would feel. What I was trying to do with it was give the villain some nuance. Yes, the man is evil, but he hates the persecution of his people throughout time. And he imparts a memory to my heroine. And I knew, on some level, I was really nailing it. And as I wrote, it dawned on me. For the FIRST TIME . . . this is going to be in a book that people read. I am writing something that, when they are done reading it, will stay with them because it is a really awful scene, a part of human history people are not very aware of, and it will affect them. I AM A WRITER.
So that's what I am now. :-)
How about all of you? When did you become a real writer? Doesn't matter if your pubbed or unpubbed, agented or not. You either are or aren't. I guess I am now. And you? Or have you not yet staked your claim on that title?
My next trip, in January, for a book signing, Spanish Disco was in Cosmpolitan magazine, which declared it "hilarious." I was in Manhattan, in Duane Reed (a drugstore chain in NYC). I was buying my favorite candy (Necco's), bottled water, and, having just heard this news from my editor, two copies of Cosmo. I stood on line, flipped to the page--there in a beautiful box they touted my new book. It felt strange. I called my friend and said, "Guess where I am?" (Yes, an annoying person standing on line talking on my cellphone). I told her the news. Called my dad (always do when something cool happens). But it felt . . . odd.
I can recount a hundred stories. Signings, conferences, parties, reviews, US Weekly (twice!), American Girl magazine, Woman's World, newspapers . . . fan emails, fan letters, fan stalker (a tale for another day). But I always told people it was my "fake" life. I didn't feel connected to it at all. I would say there was about a 20% chance I would tell you I was a writer if I met you. Maybe less than 20%. I saw book after book in stores. MY books. With my name (or pen name) on the cover. I turned the pages. Yeah . . . those were my words. I wrote them. I got a TV deal (still can't tell you all the details yet). Still not real.
What was real? My kids, my life, my laundry pile. My poker games, my sushi place, my best friend, my struggles as a human being. My periods of grief and stress, my periods of bliss and joy. The birth of baby number four. Sleepless nights and coffee-fueled days. My secret dreams--which have nothing to do with writing. But being an author didn't feel real.
Until, oddly enough, yesterday. I was putting the finishing touches on BLOOD SON, a February 2007 release. And I was writing a brutal rape scene. In fact, it was so brutal that I was having a hard time with it, imagining how readers would feel. What I was trying to do with it was give the villain some nuance. Yes, the man is evil, but he hates the persecution of his people throughout time. And he imparts a memory to my heroine. And I knew, on some level, I was really nailing it. And as I wrote, it dawned on me. For the FIRST TIME . . . this is going to be in a book that people read. I am writing something that, when they are done reading it, will stay with them because it is a really awful scene, a part of human history people are not very aware of, and it will affect them. I AM A WRITER.
So that's what I am now. :-)
How about all of you? When did you become a real writer? Doesn't matter if your pubbed or unpubbed, agented or not. You either are or aren't. I guess I am now. And you? Or have you not yet staked your claim on that title?
posted by Erica Orloff at 8:33 AM
16 Comments:
Oooh! Me first, and this is a toughy.
Unfortunately I can't give you a straight answer. It changes like the weather.
-I have written a story, beginning middle and end.
I AM a writer.
-No one has read it.
I am NOT a writer.
-Cheaply print a few copies for the fam-club (not a typo, short for friends and family) they approve.
I AM a writer
Wait, fam-club also thought my Dr. Seuss style poetry was genius.
I am NOT a writer
-start and finish new story. Offer it up to humorless and somewhat know-it-all neighbor...she laughs and cries over the same ms
-I AM a writer
-she is not an editor or an agent, and hey, lets face it, she got a free read
I am NOT a writer
You get the picture. The reality is kids, family, house, the ringing phone that I answer to keep our business alive-- the concepts of agents, editors, covers, reviews are about as big a reality for me as a family vacation to Mars. But lately, I have come to the conclusion that I write, therefore I AM a writer.
When and if agents, editors and release dates become a part of my everyday reality, perhaps that term can be altered to 'novelist' or 'author'
But yeah, I think if you write, you have every right to consider yourself a writer! Even if it doesn't feel real and you wonder what the heck you're thinking trying to climb such a high fence. ;-)
I'm very practical. For me, it's Show Me The Byline. When I saw my name in print for the first time in my high school newspaper, "By Karmela...", I was a writer.
Just recently. Because I got my agent. She requested revisions. Now soon to be submission to publishing houses. Most of the time it doesn't seem real. I get along wonderfully with my agent. I'm so greatful for that.
Well, most of me leans towards Karmela's POV.
Except that I realised that I had the commitment to go all the way when I finished my first story and instead of jumping up and down, I wanted to start the next one right away.
So right now, I'm forcing myself to take the day off because I finished a short story (my first) yesterday, except that now I'm hovering over the RTB site because I want to see what people are saying about my post. You just can't win some days.
Maybe a better way to put it is that I feel like a real writer but I'm not an author.
I always hesitate to tell people I'm a writer, because their first question is, "Have you published anything?"
I have some bylines from years ago (poetry and nonfiction), but just in the last three years started taking a serious stab at writing novels. For me, it all came down to having large chunks of time alone for the first time in my life and running out of excuses NOT to write. I think turning forty had something to do with it too, thinking "if not now, when."
Anyway, I've gotten enough positive feedback to keep me going. I think most of us need some sort of outside validation from a respected source to consider ourselves "real."
Erica: The day you told me, "I think you're ready" was the day I became a real writer. Thank you.
lainey:
You are not alone. I think we all struggle with when are we really a "member of the club," so to speak. I think for pubbed authors it then gets into "bigger publisher" or "higher print run" or the various lists. We're an insecure bunch. :-)
E
karm:
Good answer.
E
la:
I am glad you get along with your agent--a key relationship. And yet another step on your path to publication.
E
milady:
I think that's how I was for a very long time.
E
Jude:
I am really, really glad that in some tiny way I helped. Remember your old pals when you are on the NYT bestsellers list.
:-)
E
Believe me, I will. :)
Is it cheating if I say "always?" I've had a few short stories published in e-zines this year, and I've just acquired an agent ^_^ but honestly, one of the earliests thing I can remember doing is writing. So, from age about six or seven, I've considered myself a writer, even when I was just writing one-paragraph long snippets about ponies.
naomi:
I LOVE THAT! I used to write stories as a child. About a dysfunctional family of mice. :-) Stories were my life then. Still are.
E
I used to buy packs of stickers and write stories about the pictures on them - I still feel nostalgic when I see the packets in news agents nowadays.
Poor mice. :(
Jude:
They had issues. :-)
E
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