As a teen I wrote horrible poetry that was published in horrible zines, and since staking my fate on fiction I’ve largely abandoned it; a few attempts a year do not a poet make. However, I was reading some old journals today, and I found this one and thought to myself, "You know? I’m not half bad at this, occasionally." At any rate, it made me laugh, gently, at myself. This is from March 2005. As I recall I was living at home, going to grad school, and trying to quit smoking at the time. Enjoy!
The Writing Life
"You start with where you are
and let yourself do it badly"
said the writer I want to
be like.
But by twenty she was
writing for a magazine.
I worked retail -
until they fired me.
Because writers
are not
salesmen.
I worry I am unemployable.
I get skinny because there is no
money - my endless diet of
Ramen noodles
and diet Coke -
I tell myself it’s good material.
By night I rub my eye with my thumb.
By night it’s vodka out of a
plastic bottle, like milk.
By night - it is fear.
Morning rises -
In the bookstore I see
covers of the novels I want to write.
Also I notice the
compulsion in myself -
if I stop
I’ll die.
Even if I never have a kicky photo
or get to be on NPR.
Also, I see all my comma splices
and am terrified.
I sit to write
and realize the money ran out
long ago
the talent before that.
The phone rings -
"no, he’s not here.
Yes, I’ll tell him he’s late
on his student loans."
The day is injected
and begins to tremble.
Years of smoking leave my lungs incapactitated.
I pace.
How badly do I need this? I ask myself.
Until I realize two things:
1) that I am unable to do else -
being overeducated and unemployable
has rendered me
a writer, and
2) Barbara Cartland made a living at it.
So can I.
By night, again,
I picture the obituary:
"’Writer’ starves to death
wealth of literature discovered.
Philosophers remark: ‘Fate’s a bitch.’"
© 2005 by Nathan. All rights reserved.
