Wow. As a high school english teacher of nearly twenty years with an eye on possibly changing paths, this post hit me where, perhaps, I needed to be hit. Thanks!
For years I'd ask myself: If I'm a writer and I'm not writer, what am I? My parents were very supportive/non-pressuring, but I remember what my father said one day about the father of a classmate of mine (like many businessmen in town, they lunched at a club downtown; my father realized that my friend's father, who worked for an old family company, would often stay and play cards in the afternoon, etc. . . . my father realized that this other father didn't really do anything much at his company, just had a nominal job by virtue of being in the family; I wish I could remember his exact words, but it was like, He doesn't have a job . . . with such an uncharacteristic scorn in his voice, as if that was the most shameful thing you could say about a grown man. So, in some weird way, I internalized that--if you're not working you're a bum. When I hear you imply that you can go out the other side of writing fiction and not feel crippled by the thought, that's very significant, I think--at age 76, I'm still battling these feelings. I just say I'm retired if I don't want to get down into it very far, or I explain that I'm working on my Substack and that it seems to scratch the itch for the moment--not admitting that I don't have the stomach to take on another project that will never see print. The fact is that when you get old you have to engage with the business of letting go, and one of the things you have to let go of is the craving for recognition--not fame exactly, but the sense that you were here and you made some things of value and you want them to be remembered. You have to bear in mind that even very well-regarded writers are forgotten almost overnight. Anyway, I admire the candor of your post and wish I could summon the same measure of equanimity or emotional wisdom . . .
Wow. As a high school english teacher of nearly twenty years with an eye on possibly changing paths, this post hit me where, perhaps, I needed to be hit. Thanks!
Feel this so much, Heidi.
For years I'd ask myself: If I'm a writer and I'm not writer, what am I? My parents were very supportive/non-pressuring, but I remember what my father said one day about the father of a classmate of mine (like many businessmen in town, they lunched at a club downtown; my father realized that my friend's father, who worked for an old family company, would often stay and play cards in the afternoon, etc. . . . my father realized that this other father didn't really do anything much at his company, just had a nominal job by virtue of being in the family; I wish I could remember his exact words, but it was like, He doesn't have a job . . . with such an uncharacteristic scorn in his voice, as if that was the most shameful thing you could say about a grown man. So, in some weird way, I internalized that--if you're not working you're a bum. When I hear you imply that you can go out the other side of writing fiction and not feel crippled by the thought, that's very significant, I think--at age 76, I'm still battling these feelings. I just say I'm retired if I don't want to get down into it very far, or I explain that I'm working on my Substack and that it seems to scratch the itch for the moment--not admitting that I don't have the stomach to take on another project that will never see print. The fact is that when you get old you have to engage with the business of letting go, and one of the things you have to let go of is the craving for recognition--not fame exactly, but the sense that you were here and you made some things of value and you want them to be remembered. You have to bear in mind that even very well-regarded writers are forgotten almost overnight. Anyway, I admire the candor of your post and wish I could summon the same measure of equanimity or emotional wisdom . . .
Amen.