On being a "writer"...

I think it's one of the perpetual conditions of most creative people--and I like to think particularly the geniuses because that would confer a lot of glory to me--to be deeply insecure, anxious, passionately devoted to self-loathing, moody, and terrible at self-promotion. Writers in particular, or at least the ones I know, generally think that they suck, that everything they do is sub-par, and that making their point through their flawed but genuine contributions to the existant body of writing is infinitely preferable to communicating with the outside world directly by, say, talking. I assume all these things to be true because they pretty much encapsulate the way I see things from the perspective of a writer. Sure I can be outgoing and fun-loving and confident with my friends or at a bar, but when it comes to showing a professional face as a writer, I either tend to laugh the idea off ("I'm not a writer! I WANT to be a writer! But I'm not a writer! It'll never happen!") or cringe, blush, and back away, mumbling some self-deprecating nonsense about how my stuff isn't very good. I hate trying to present myself as someone who knows anything about writing, much less the topics I write about, and even less about what the hell it is I'm trying to do by writing anything about them in the first place.

And yet, as a ball of nerves with the confidence of a particularly timid country mouse, I have to try to get myself published. In order to do this, and depending on the type of writing being put out, I have to learn to overcome my fears of exposure to do any number or combination of the following things, according to all the forums, columns, advice giving articles, and writer's salons I 've been frequenting lately for advice on the writing and publishing processes: develop a strong platform for each project so that you know exactly what it is you want to say and to whom; find the audience you want and turn that audience into a dedicated readership willing to buy and read anything you publish; develop professional liasons with as many people as humanly possible in the publishing, publicity, and reviewing worlds; write a 40-60 page book proposal with a complete table of contents, sample chapters, and a detailed description of how you will market your project; pitch an idea to and editor by throwing the names of all your publications and people willing to read, review, and blurb your project; attend every publishing event possible to make friends and network with other publishing people; stalk the agent and publicist you want on Twitter, Facebook, Google, and in the pages of every book he/she has ever worked on so that when you pitch it you will know exactly what that agent is looking to represent; find and pay your own publicist; clean up any and all internet presence you already have so that no evidence of your past usage of bad grammar exists anywhere online; somehow get yourself on the roster for public speaking events to add to your CV; develop a CV; demonstrate self confidence to everyone you meet so they'll think you're hip and want to read your work.

There are more. Lots more. Nowhere in there does it say "Write a kickass piece of something or other and let people read it."

Nowhere in there is there a mention of anyone helping you or giving you any credit as a creative individual who might not be The Next Big Thing.

I know the current American reading climate has moved away from fiction and poetry, the genres in which writers are mostly allowed to be eccentric weirdos who wear flannel and live in log cabins in the woods and pee themselves while speaking in public, but as one of those eccentrics... That list up there... I'm absolutely terrified.

I mean it's daunting enough to just write something that bares your very private layers of inner soul and then let somebody see it and judge it and make their assumptions about you based on it. It's soul-freezingly scary to try to shout out your creative vision in the face of the fast-moving, fast-forgetting, writhing, blogging, tweeting mass of the digital age of too-much-information and little appreciation for anything. The quivering hulk of monster that is Your Competition, the reek of its hungry but very picky breath, is enough to turn away even the most courageous.

But the idea of trying to market myself to a world that has no reason to care unless I personally make it care? Or of trying to scrounge up the money to pay a publicist that can actually get me a speaking engagement somewhere other than soapbox in Union Square? Or of "building an online following" somehow by being... I don't know... magically endowed with minion-creation capacities? How the hell am I, this little teeny self-mutilating blob of anxiety and too-high personal expectations, supposed to accomplish the sky-scraper-high list of accomplishments before even finishing my book?

I might as well just pee myself now, in front of all of you, turn off the computer, curl into a ball, and settle into my receptionist-for-a-living lifestyle. Or go back to school to become a nurse.

Shit.