Cringe Part 2

There's one part of my development as an author that I didn't mention in the last post but would like to share.

When I graduated high school, it seemed logical to me that I would pursue a Creative Writing major simply because it was something I was good at. Once I went to college, I found a number of bohemian friends on campus who were aspiring writers themselves. It was the kind of place where you might come across a kid sitting on a park bench with an old typewriter in a cardboard box who either styled himself as the next Hemingway, craved attention, or both.

At some point during that time, I realized that I needed to be able to actually make money once I graduated and find a major that would help me accomplish that, rather than improve on something I had always honed myself. I went back and forth on this decision, trying out Business and Economics classes (I was terrible at these) as well as others. But it wasn't until I actually had to take the first core requirement for the Creative Writing major that I finally made a decision.

[ENG 220] Creative Writing: Fiction was a strange night class from 7 until 10pm twice a week. I remember this feeling of apprehension as I crossed the campus and entered the classroom. Students were seated roundtable style with the professor, who had this ridiculous title, like the Grant Shelby Distinguished Professor of Creative Writing or something. I knew most of my peers from "Skeezhouse", a noxious collection of misfits and misanthropes that were part of the notorious science fiction and fantasy club. 

As we went through the class introduction and started going around the table to discuss our interests and writing styles, it became clear that each aspiring writer was highly opinionated and some were more interested in being critical than actually writing a good story. Case-in-point, one of them had been in my Victorian Literature class in a previous semester where I wrote this Steampunk-influenced take on a horror/mystery detective narrative. It was actually pretty good, but when I shared it with the class, all that bitch could fixate on was my fucking use of commas, rather than the story itself (the instructor loved it).

So E220 was going to be totally structured around this writing/feedback loop. I started feeling a distinctly Jamie Lannister sentiment: By what right does the Wolf judge the Lion? I told the professor the next day that I was switching out classes and majors. As an actual published author himself, he seemed disappointed to lose a member of his flock, but I wasn't. I did take more literature classes though!

To be fair, my writing wasn't that great back then either, and I'm still striving to improve to this day. But in the years since, I found that collaborative writing with other high-caliber writers of a similar mindset is far more effective at improving your craft than dragging it through the mud in an academic setting. Continuously being exposed to great works of fiction inspires and opens the mind to new avenues and ways of painting a world and characters. 

I think I was right about not becoming a fiction author as my career and main source of income. A cautionary tale was one of those bohemian writer friends who was the most prolific of the bunch, an upperclassman who had a thing for ancient Egypt. I recently came across him on LinkedIn and the guy had a long and unsuccessful run of trying to get his work published while he worked odd jobs trying to make ends meet. He lived from hand to mouth until he settled into a full-time comms gig for an oil corporation in Egypt.

I wonder if I would’ve been the same way or if I might've broken the mold instead. I was satisfied with publishing my various works online, though, and I'm stoked that I've gotten back into writing in a meaningful and at least somewhat sustainable way. You've all made that possible – instead of months or even years between my works, it's just weeks, and I'm loving it.

What an awesome ride.

-D