I read something recently that bothered me; I forget where, so please forgive me for the lack of linkage and attribution. The basic gist was that the only "real" writers are the writers who are currently getting paid. Journalists are writers, because they get paid, they think about writing all the time, and all they do is write, write, write.

Yes, this is true. Journalists for daily outlets are writing nonstop. Because being a journalist is all about feeding the black hole. People who’ve never done it don’t really understand, but working for the media means feeding a constant, sucking void – as soon as you’ve filed a story or edited a package together, it’s gone, and the black hole opens its never-sated maw to demand more, now. Or there won’t be a paper or a broadcast the next day. You don’t get to stop and put your hands on your hips and smile proudly; you get it done, and when it’s done, you get on to the next thing.

It’s hard work, being a journalist. You have to truly love it. I always told my broadcasting students, "If you do not absolutely love this work for its own sake, then you’re not cut out for it. Being on TV is not glamorous. It’s hard work for bad pay, and it never, ever stops." 

I think out of probably 150 students I had in my two years in the trenches of the University of Oklahoma broadcasting program, only a few – maybe fewer than five – are still working in television. Same is true for most of the people I knew who (used) to work in print journalism.

So I read things like this, about how hard print journalists work and how they like to lay sole claim to the title of "writer." It’s like, "Oh, you’re working on a novel? Well who the fuck isn’t? Get out of my way, PLEBE!" 

I *hate* that. Yes, you work very hard. So do I. The great thing about print journalism is that the payoff is almost immediate; you write something, and then it appears in print. This is the same reason why so many bloggers (erroneously) consider themselves "journalists," which is a topic for another post.

I came through a good, if not spare, graduate level writing program. The people there were looked down upon by everyone else in the journalism school. They were the dreamers, the silly writers without a real career path except to keep writing.

And I’m not going to lie: most of those people are never, ever going to make it. I read more terrible writing in that program than I have in my entire life. I read writers who make Barbara Cartland look like Thomas Pynchon. I also read people who had a real chance at a career if they kept with it.

It’s the keeping with it that’s so, so hard. We don’t have the tight guides that are AP style and deadlines to keep us writing, writing, writing. We have only determination. We have the conviction that our stories need to be told, even when we have no one to tell them to. We don’t get paid, we don’t get hope. We get rejection after rejection after rejection and we stick with it, no matter what. We’re crazy. We’re hopeless and hopeful and put-upon and moody. If we’re good, we get a little work done every day – a little real work. We weave worlds out of nothing and, more often than not, we let them go back to nothing.

Being a "real" writer isn’t about getting paid or seeing your name in print. It’s about looking for the story in everything you see and hear and touch and feel. It’s about never giving up.

This comes via one of my favorite websites, The Art of Manliness. I think I’m going to have it tattooed backward on my forehead so I can read it every time I go to the bathroom.

To Risk

To laugh is to risk appearing the fool.
To weep is to risk appearing sentimental.
To reach out is to risk involvement,
To expose feelings is to risk exposing your true self.
To place your ideas and
dreams before a crowd is to risk their loss.
To love is to risk not being loved in return,
To live is to risk dying,
To hope is to risk despair,
To try is to risk failure.
But risks must be taken because
the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing.
The person who risks nothing, does nothing,
has nothing, is nothing.

– William Arthur Ward (1921-1994)

So, you might remember me mentioning something about it; I’m writing a novel. My friend David read it recently and gave me some excellent notes on character development, plot, and story. Then I made a story diagram, to make sure I wasn’t getting bogged down and that my structure was tight. (This is the shit they teach you when you get a graduate-level degree in writing). Now I’m getting ready to get started on a third draft. I’m adding some parts; I’m taking others away. I’m tightening. Except in the places where I’m loosening. It’s a very organic process.

I was talking about this recently with some people, one of whom was my husband, who mentioned that I don’t talk a lot about my process or what I’m working on when I’m writing. I said that, for me, to talk about what I’m working on is to dissipate the energy of it. I often have conversations OUT LOUD, WITH NOBODY (because I’m well!), occasionally thinking that what I’m saying would be excellent fodder for an essay, a story, or a blog post. But then once I’ve finished my CONVERSATION WITH NOBODY, I almost never sit down and write the piece; what I have to say is gone. Anyway, so I haven’t been talking or blogging about this story much, but it’s still very much alive, and I still very much love it. I want it to be in agents’ hands by summer’s end. Anybody who can recommend me highly to a literary agent gets a beer. No – a keg. NO! Sexual favors! Okay, no, just a beer. A six pack.

THIS IS WHAT COMPROMISE LOOKS LIKE.

And yes, the phrase “this huge fart” appears on PAGE ONE of my novel. I think we can go ahead and pre-emptively award me the Nobel Prize for Literature.