Essay as appeared in University of King’s College MFA Alumni newsletter September 2023
When I was nineteen and living in a basement apartment in Vaughn, I submitted a poem to an anthology. It was accepted. Then published. My boyfriend in fine arts at the time was so proud while I studied geochemistry and shrugged. I never bought the book. I don’t even have the poem anymore. The computer I was using had a hard drive I didn’t save. In fact, I don’t have any of my undergrad assignments. All that writing lost. Did it even happen?
Nineteen is an amorphous time full of longing and angst. I remember learning to make masala chai tea in a pot with milk and listening to Sarah Harmer sing Lodestar, the darkness reigns take off your things, more than I recall the words I scribbled down on scraps of paper. I also can’t seem to forget the futon and the boy who broke my heart (I’m still writing about him). I didn’t even keep a notebook then. I wasn’t a writer. I didn’t think I would be, but I couldn’t stop observing, feeling, describing. I couldn’t stop writing my life down.
I wasn’t afraid of running out of ideas then. I wasn’t afraid of what would come out or who I would hurt or worse—betray. I didn’t concern myself with trespassing. I took a step and then another. I was more concerned with touching something real than achieving something from the words.
This brings me to the post-grad blues and fretting over whether I’m a legit writer.
Am I legit when I’m published? Then I was at nineteen so why don’t I feel it.
Am I legit when I’m in a revered magazine?
Am I legit when I’m the author of a book? Or does it take two? Or a NYT bestseller.
We all know writers are those who are writing but an author has readers.
So, am I legit with readers? I have those.
I don’t know the answer to this.
I’ve had to stop asking these questions and get back to work because when I started out it began as a hunger to express myself. To write my world down.
To be a writer is to sign up for a lifetime of rejection with a few sprinkled moments of success. To be a writer is to write and to continue despite the literary hurdles, losses, shortcomings, and disappointments. To write in slits of time between a busy work schedule. To write on the train, in line at the grocery store, on a walk, weeding the garden or making tomato salad.
The post-MFA blues happen. Maybe you didn’t get the book deal you hoped for. Maybe you didn’t sign with an agent. Maybe your book deal fell through. I’m here to tell you it’s okay. Your manuscript still matters, it’s still in process. My manuscript isn’t finished but I carve out time to work where I can because I must.
As one of my writing mentors taught me—go slowly and accept yourself. Study your sentence for quality. Clean beloved sentences. Take your time on the right arrangement of words. Wait until you achieve a level of clarity to say what you mean. At least try.
Not all writers have the same circumstances, so not all writers have the same path.