Falling out of, and back into, love… with writing

In an experience I had where I introduced myself over and over again to the members of my now-ex-girlfriend’s extended family, I conducted a small experiment. It went like this. I was then enrolled in an MFA program in Creative Writing, finishing out the semester before dropping out and pursuing a degree in Classics (and my teaching certificate). I had to answer the question “What do you do?” a lot. And I had a lot of choose from: I was a writer, I was getting an MFA, I was a teaching assistant, I was switching graduate programs so I could become a teacher, I was a barista at Starbucks. My audience was mostly full of people who had regular jobs, nine-to-fives. First, my answer was that I was getting an MFA in Creative Writing. The response was a nod and something akin to “that’s nice, dear.” When I told them I was dropping out to pursue teaching, I got support, they said things like “teaching is a great profession,” and “oh, that’s wonderful.”

I should also add, that this is not a very random occurrence now. I am used to people not quite knowing what to do with my course of studies, but these instances were really the first since I had graduated from college where I felt like I was surrounded by people who were successful in their everyday lives and jobs, and who weren’t people that I was close to already, people who understood where I was coming from in my life and where I ultimately wanted to end up. Things like this happen to me nearly every time I have to answer questions about what I do. Only now, to a larger audience, when I disclose that I am a high school Latin teacher, they skip over the teacher part and ask if there is a need for Latin teachers. Was I able to find a job easily? And, why Latin?

I spend a lot of time imagining what my life might have been like had I continued to write seriously during the last three years. It usually makes me ask myself questions and sometimes feel a little bit like an imposter. What is the value of art? What is the value of women artists? Of artists who are not yet able to stand on their own two feet, who are not yet able to rely completely on their art for support? What of those who want to pursue art, but who don’t have the means to do so full time? – are they any less artists? There are so many people in the world today who are self-employed or who write blogs for a living. Just another woman who has decided to call herself a writer these days.

I went to a women’s college (Mount Holyoke), and I was surrounded by a mentality of doing it all. As a woman, I learned, I could do it all. (Think CEO and mother.) Now, I receive an alumnae quarterly magazine filled with stories and glossy pictures of women who do just that – women who have made it, so to speak, who start their own companies and have children and professors who get to do incredibly cool research for a living. This is also the quarterly magazine that published a piece a few years ago on writing and the necessity for a writer today to have a blog, to do some of the leg work by putting their own writing out into the world, getting feedback from readers. I was offended to read quotes from graduates of my Alma Mater in the publishing field who claimed they wouldn’t look at a manuscript if the writer didn’t already have a blog. They couldn’t possibly be talking about other MHC graduates; surely someone still did things the old fashioned way. I swore I would never have a blog. (I swore I’d never have a blog, but I also never submitted my writing for publication.)  It is probably good to note that this happened at the beginning of my journey into an MFA program. I had a crisp acceptance letter and dreams of professors who would advocate for my writing and who would teach me how to advocate for myself as a writer. Obviously, I was naive.

In high school, I got an award from a teacher of mine called the Professional Writer Award. He made it up. It had previously never existed, until I came along to outline and draft a novel under his supervision. At the bottom of the plaque, there was a quote that read: “She showed up for work and wrote.” I no longer have the plaque, but I believe the quote was attributed to Robert McKee. Now that I have begun writing my own blog, now that I have begun writing again, I have found (once again) that showing up and writing is arguably the most important aspect of being a writer. No writing gets done if one doesn’t write.

When I dropped out of the MFA program, part of the deal I made with myself was that I can write anywhere, anytime. I didn’t need a workshop or professors to give me deadlines. Writing is something that I did for myself, because I had stories to tell, and I would keep doing it. Whoever said that teaching was a good profession for writing was lying. Teaching is exhausting and time consuming, and yet it is something that I love and am (sometimes) good at. I understand, on the one hand, why writers become teachers: summer vacation. But even then, I’m tired for the month of July and take a daily afternoon nap with my dog.

This past summer, I said it was time. I said if I don’t start trying, trying to write shitty first drafts, I would never be happy and possibly never able to live with myself. I am a graduate of a women’s college, for goodness sake, I should be able to do it all, or at least have the determination to do it if I want to.

What makes one an artist? Is it determination to keep going, especially in the face of rejection? Is it talent? Is it showing up for work and writing (painting, singing, playing, practicing, acting, etc.)? Is it consistency? Practice makes perfect, or at least better than before; practice also makes for consistency, for good habits.

I might gently argue that being a writer has to do with time and money (and determination, I suppose) more than anything else. Since I’ve started writing again, my house is a little dustier and I’ve had to get used to piles of dishes in the sink for an hour or two longer. All the time adds up, though, and I can say I’ve written blog posts and stories or parts of stories. And then there’s money. Teaching is better than working at Starbucks, but there’s still the issue of time. Starbucks meant I was physically exhausted, tired of talking to people and smiling. Teaching means I am mentally exhausted. I have a wonderful wife who is an attorney, but I don’t really see us as a single income household. Are men more likely to make these dreams come true? Of living without certain things for a while? Of setting aside other dreams or other obligations to get the job done? Of allowing others to take care of them so they can get some work done? But then, what do women do? Give it up to have children? Or, get tied up in other parts of life? Where is the balance? Doesn’t Virginia Woolf make this argument, too, all a woman needs to write is money and room of one’s own?

This last paragraph is actually supposed to tell the story of how I fell back in love with writing – how I started holding myself accountable and writing regularly; even when I don’t finish things; at least I’m writing. The writing makes me happy – the figuring something out. The stories need to be told because they tell the story of some part of me, or of some part of the world, or they tell me of how our world and the world of Ancient Rome and mythology is not really all that different, not when it comes to human nature.