What's Chava Possum Up to Today?
A rebel writer’s weekly blog
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August 27, 2020
Yesterday, a conversation between myself and my partner reminded me just how lonely writing is and, truth be told, how that loneliness is of my own making.
Some of you may know that I’m writing a novel— my first. But I’m willing to bet that a larger number of you didn’t know that. Why? Because I don’t talk about it. Call it self-consciousness. Call it fear. Call it uncertainty. My silence around the one thing that brings me joy is laced with an almost old-country superstition— an unnerving fear of the misfortune that falls on many writers throughout history who write in times of crisis, particularly of the fascist variety. But it isn’t just political angst that urges me to keep the writing of my novel close to the chest. My neurological disorder encourages isolation. Capitalism shames artists and creators for our lack of productivity by reminding us that what we produce is not seen as valuable. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel guilty. Guilty for what? Attempting (or even dreaming) of living just an inch outside the bounds of the American workaholic code of conduct. Perhaps more than anything else, writing is hard to talk about with the people in your life. Thoughts creep in: Does my partner see my work as valuable? Or am I a joke? Does my parent see my work as an embarrassment? Do my friends think I’m wasting my time? Does anyone believe in me? Does anyone even care?
Don’t lie… if you’re a writer sitting here reading this, I know you’ve had the same thoughts. It’s not just me.
Back to that inciting conversation.
It’s been a busy few months for everyone— paying the bills, standing in solidarity, facing fascism, surviving a pandemic. Needless to say, it’s been a bad time for my writing. Yesterday, blessed with a momentary break from everything else, I took the opportunity to write some notes for my novel, specifically around world-building. Progress was slow, but certain. I felt strongly that my work was on the right path. Out of pure excitement, I asked my partner to read my short notes for a “logic check”— did my notes make logical sense from an outside perspective? Being a kind person, my partner read and affirmed that it made sense. But there was something in his tone, something in how quickly he turned around to leave, that hurt me. I so rarely share in no small part because I fear these exact moments— how the slightest body language and tone of voice can completely shatter my confidence. I’m sensitive to say the least. (It was also probably just a bad bipolar day, as I call them.) I tried to get back to work, but I couldn’t focus. A wave of exhaustion suddenly hit and I took a short nap, which is something that I never do. When I woke up, my partner came to talk with me, sensing my hurt.
As we talked, I came to understand that, yes my partner could do more to express genuine curiosity about my day-to-day work, but I also had work to do. I found myself saying, “Because I feel like I can’t talk to anyone about my writing, my writing isn’t real.” I don’t declare that space for writing in my life. It’s sort of like that tree falling in the woods conundrum: If no one hears about my writing, then is it real? The answer is yes, it is real, but it doesn’t feel real, which is the more important point.
My partner explained that the creators in his life aside from me he followed through Twitter. When they shared a tid-bit of information about what they were doing that day, he had an access point to enter the conversation, to ask questions, and to be curious. At first, this frustrated me. “What, so I’m supposed to cleanly package my work on Twitter for you to care?” But that wasn’t his point. His point was that he doesn’t know how to engage with a process that is entirely in my head. In the past, when I’ve handed him a draft, he gobbles it up. But, at a time when I am starting from scratch and nothing is really on paper, there isn’t anything for him to hold onto. If I could share more, then maybe he could learn how to engage.
I’m sure as hell not getting on Twitter. But it got me thinking about how I could share my daily novel-writing process with others. Rebel Mouthed Books is a perfect space for that. Normally, my blog posts are long-form essays/articles about a specific topic outside myself. I’ve never been particularly good at keeping a daily journal or diary, though I’ve tried. While a daily blog is a bit intimidating for me, I am willing to give it a shot.
The “What’s Chava Possum Up to Today” blog is where I plan to share daily doses of what it’s like to be me writing my novel on any given day. My hope is that this sharing process helps me
Learn how to share about my writing and
Make unapologetic space in my daily life for writing.
Since I began writing my novel— freshman year of college in 2014— I’ve worked six different jobs, each of which demanded huge chunks of my time, energy, attention, and soul. With each job, I thought, “One day. One day, my employers will recognize that I’m a writer first.” Shocker: That’s never happened. And it never will. That’s how capitalism works. From the Dolly Parton song, 9 to 5,
“It’s a rich man’s game, no matter what they call it. And you spend your life putting money in his pocket.”
Bottom line: Our employers only want our skills, our knowledge, and our efforts for their gain, to achieve their goals. No matter what they say about empowering you and your goals, it’s just not true. Like many of you, I empower everyone else around me, except me. I’ve recognized this for some time, but held on hope that it might change as I got older and as employers respected my skills more. That hope is futile. Rather, the hope that is worth having is the hope I am most afraid of— the hope that my novel will one day exist on paper in a form I am truly proud of.
And with hope, you gotta act on it.
I’ll leave us with the wise words of Saint Dolly,
“You’re just a step on the boss-man’s ladder, but you’ve got dreams he’ll never take away. You’re in the same boat with a lot of your friends, waiting for the day your ship’ll come in and the tide’s gonna turn and it’s all gonna roll your way.”
Don’t wait for that ship, y’all.
Share your story in the comments below! Do you share your writing? How does it feel to talk about it? Have you struggled to demand space for writing in your professional life? What helps you open up?