Writer

I WAS TALKING to a friend over lunch the other day, and I referred to myself as a writer. It just came out, and as soon as it did, I noticed what I’d just said; he noticed too, and asked about it. It’s a funny thing, how we label ourselves, and an even funnier thing to notice when those labels take effect.

I think it’s most often a gradual thing, adding to and deleting from our menu of self-describing labels. I used to be an artist, but that was a long time ago. When did it stop? I don’t know. Will it come back? Maybe. I didn’t used to label myself as gay. For a short time, I used the bisexual label. Many of us do, tainting the very real sexual orientation by co-opting it as a hedge against the terrifying act of coming all the way out. But that’s another story for another day.

When did I become a writer, exactly? I started this blog in spring 2011, but first referred to myself on here as a writer in my first post of 2012, and asserted that fact with some more authority on the anniversary of the blog. I think it was around that time I changed my okcupid profile to say my main interest is writing.

But something has shifted more recently, and now I routinely refer to myself as a writer. What has changed? Well, a few things. I’ve taken on more freelance work, have been working on writing fiction, and have been posting on here more often, so writing is a bigger part of my life. So big, in fact, that I’ve gone ahead and, as threatened, gotten the wheels turning to reduce my time at my day job to 3 days a week. (This was a big new year’s goal of mine!) It’s not happened yet, but it will, and so it already feels different.

The biggest thing I’ve done as a writer lately, though, is to post some of my fiction on here. There are all kinds of writers, of course, including writers who never share their work publicly, and that’s fine. But, for me, it’s always been a goal to share my writing with the world and to know that people have been moved by it. I so appreciate the feedback I’ve received from friends and strangers alike. It makes me want to do more writing.

Speaking of doing more, perhaps the biggest sign that I’ve got writing on the brain is that I’m doing NaNoWriMo again this November, committing to string together 50,000 words in 30 days. It makes no sense — I’ve not cleared my calendar, I’ll be traveling without a laptop, I’ve got a ton of freelance work to do, I don’t even have a clear idea of what to write about (not that I did last time, but at least I had a basic structure) — but I’m doing it anyway. If I’m a little hard to reach this November, you’ll know why. I’m writing.

Kind of blue

I’M SITTING HERE in my bathrobe on this overcast day feeling kind of blue, not sure why. Then I realize I’m playing Blue Moves by Elton John (1976), and I wonder if that has something to do with it.

It doesn’t, not really, but it did make me think some more about how what I’m feeling at any given moment often has a lot to do with what I’m reading or writing or listening to at the time.

I really do believe it matters. The thought struck me as I was reading a particularly dismal part of Cormac McCarthy‘s brilliant Border Trilogy last year. It was book two, The Crossing, and the main character was having a particularly bad time in Mexico for a period of, oh, around 300 pages. Maybe I was having a particularly bad time of my own around then as well, but I found myself dragged down into a funk I couldn’t shake, which I consider testament to how good the writing is (or how fragile my mental state, or both). When Billy Parham finally rode back across the border, my cloud lifted.

This has happened to me countless times. I can also become elated when things are going well for characters I care about in fiction, though that seems to happen less often, probably just because I like books and movies that are sad. (Why that is might make another good blog post, but I’ll save it for another day.)

At the moment, I’m not reading anything—which is rare and feels strange in its own way—but I’ve been working on writing a short story that’s affecting my mood. It’s loosely based on a particularly hard, confusing, sad time in my life. Focusing on those events has me remembering how it felt and, inevitably, feeling some of it all over again.

Don’t worry, it’s not a big deal. I know it’s in the past, years ago, and I’m far beyond it all. Everything worked out fine in the end, as it always does. It’s kind of that same feeling I get from reading tough stuff, and I consider it—putting myself back in the situation and remembering how it felt—part of my research, a necessary step to writing something that will resonate and feel genuine to my readers. (You can be the judge. As I did recently with another such story, I’ll post it on here soon.)

So, I guess that’s why I feel a little blue today. Elton has nothing to do with it.