Taking Inventory

I graduated, but it didn’t feel like quite the accomplishment. Perhaps that’s from my own lack of personal emphasis. My husband even got mad at me when I told him we wouldn’t be attending, but I had my reasons, none of which were because I didn’t want to go.

Except leading up to the event, I wondered if I had made the right choice.

I’ve been struggling these past few weeks with the dreaded oscillation of hating my day job but liking being able to pay for things. Holiday season makes it hit hard when you have to pay for a lot of things. Not attending my own graduation, no matter how trivial, didn’t help either.

Of course, being the INFJ that I am, when I feel conflicted, ambivalent, what do I do? I muse.

So far, all I’ve come up with is that maybe, just maybe, the issue isn’t a lack of diligence or discipline as I’ve kvetched about before. Perhaps I’ve been too harsh on myself. Maybe it’s that I’m trying to cultivate a lifestyle that I attribute to full-time authors when I should look at my life and take stock where it is right now, not where I want it to be if all my wildest dreams came true.

But shouldn’t I be trying to develop habits that would support a lifestyle, a career, as an author now so I have less habits to learn, to adopt, should that day ever come? Sure, but I don’t think beating myself up for not maintaining the rigor and discipline Stephen King has of writing six thousand words a day when I could set my own daily word count goal is helping me keep a non-existent goal any better. It might be the very thing keeping me from making such a goal in the first place.

The only consistent writing I’ve maintained this year, by no small miracle, is my blog. However, while anyone can blog, I don’t discredit my efforts here. It’s easy to want to, but I think that would be unfair to myself; again too harsh. Writing is writing. Whether fiction or not. The point is to do it instead of not at all

Then there’s the concept the industry itself has a version of writers we idolize: authors.

I think as an industry we’ve put so much emphasis on being an author—on the achievement of earning a wage from selling one’s writing, from acquiring that covetous status of “published,” and especially of achieving the impossible dream of making a livelihood from one’s writing—we forget to also devote any attention to the hard work it is to reach that level of authorship.

Being an unpublished writer is tough.

Yes, being an author means you are distinguished from other writers in that you’ve put in all the time and hard work, but someone came along and decided all those efforts were worthy enough (based on whatever subjective litmus test they gave your work) to be published for public consumption. This achievement doesn’t make the unpublished writers any less of a writer than authors. Their talent hasn’t been recognized yet because they either need to continue honing their craft or tweaking their submissions or simply haven’t met the right agents, editors, or publishers. There are too many variables in this extremely volatile industry which could be account for a writer’s lack of publication.

Of course, this begs the question, “How do you define a professional?” While I’ve heard it’s either you’ve done something for a wage, or you’ve worked in a field for over 10,000 hours, both definitions are sorely lacking to me, but I digress. Let us leave that can of worms for another time.

As I pondered all this, I almost said those horrible words William Kenower forbade me to ever say: “Maybe I’m just not a writer.” No, I am. I won’t give up that much that quickly. I’ve earned that title. How? When I haven’t earned a wage, when I haven’t been published? Because I still put in the time and effort I can without said income.

Writing to me is more than a mere hobby. It is like oxygen. I can’t live without it.

That said, if I am a writer, then I need to appreciate my efforts, especially any achievements I’ve gained even if no one else knows they exist.

What are they then? What is the inventory of my efforts?

Well, I’ve finished one manuscript in my life, created an entire mythopoeia for it and another manuscript I’m working on; I’ve graduated from the Woodneath Story Center’s Written Storytelling Certificate Programme; and—I am going to have a published piece in an anthology coming up in July.

I admit, perhaps it is the feeling of knowing this coming July I can say I will be published helps, but really it is easy to doubt even that accomplishment as significant enough to garner the praise we so often associate with authorship.

Maybe this is one of those small moments, no matter how much of a stretch, that Gandalf describes to Galadriel:

Saruman believes that it is only great power that can hold evil in check. But that is not what I have found. I’ve found it is the small things, everyday deeds of ordinary folk that keeps the darkness at bay. Simple acts of kindness and love. 

The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey—Peter Jackson, Fran Walsh, & Philippa Boyens

Perhaps I’ve shown myself a small amount of love to keep whatever doubts and darkness at bay a bit longer that I might continue finding the light.