Bad writer

Some thoughts on my practice and a lesson from bees

For a long time, I’ve avoided calling myself a writer. It felt like a title I had to earn through achieving a number of publications (how many?), receiving accolades and workshop acceptance letters (from whom? from where?), or adopting habits that Real Writers had (like what?). Despite the obvious lack of metrics, I shackled myself to this irrational thinking. Never mind that I write for a living, or that I have been published, or that I spend a few minutes every day practicing some form of writing. I did not have a full-length publication or a Nobel Prize, so I was not a Real Writer.

In truth, the root cause of my avoidance was the possibility of being deemed a Bad Writer. My cowardice and perfectionism reveal themselves here: I preferred not being any kind of writer over the risk of being a “bad” one.

Having both the desire to write and the sheer fear of it occupy the same space in my mind was exhausting. I was convinced that I simply did not have the drive to pursue something difficult, but I did, actually—it takes a tremendous amount of will to stop yourself from doing what you want. I had drive; I just hadn’t directed it at the right purpose.

It is an incredible relief to accept the possibility of being a Bad Writer. I don’t care about what kind of writer I am anymore, though I care about the quality of my writing, as I always have. These seem like identical concerns, but they merely overlap. One is an identity, the other a practice—and while my practice informs how my identity is created and perceived, it doesn’t define me. Inversely, what I am called does not fully reflect what I actually do, though it inevitably provides a lens with which one is understood, for better or worse. Names are powerful and important, though after years of being hindered by it, I am setting it aside for now as I turn my energy towards the practice.

There is comfort in the fluidity of practice. The movement of it. It builds and shifts, and never looks the same. The reality is that I won’t be able to complete a poem or essay every single time I intend to do so, but giving time and effort to that intention is the only way completion is even a possibility. Even when I do write something to completion, the work may not satisfy. Learning to respect and honor the practice irrespective of output is where I have shifted my focus on. This newsletter is a great example of my commitment. The project may have changed, my posting may have become inconsistent, and I may not really like everything I publish, but I resolve to keep going. (“Ewan, bahala na,” is my mantra before I click the “Publish now” button.)

Yesterday, I learned from a beekeeper that being around a beehive isn’t as risky as most people think it is—unless it’s a hive of Killer Bees, of course—because the bees are often too focused on their tasks to care about a human simply passing by.

Do bees make mistakes? Maybe, but I doubt they worry about being Bad Bees.

Deciding to stay in the US last year was not an easy decision. I sometimes think I give the impression that I have just been having the time of my life here. Presently, I can say I am the happiest I have ever been, but the months leading up to this point have not been a cruise. The risks were high—I was anchorless in a foreign country, far from my friends and family, without the promise of a job, and unequipped with an in-demand college degree. Aside from Michael, I felt like I had nothing for myself here. So, I promised myself I would write. It was the one constant thing in my life.

I started plenty of drafts on paper, on my phone, on my laptop, on the backs of receipts. Many were objectively terrible; some, I liked. Those I liked a lot, I submitted to journals online. Most were rejected, but a handful was accepted:

“Mandaluyong” was published in petrichor on April 22. I felt especially honored by this acceptance as I felt a kinship with the poetics of many of its contributors. From the same issue, I really enjoyed Barrett White’s “Harbor Island_Proto-Viaduct”. The rhythm and imagery bring me to my knees.

My prose poem “Armor”—which was shortlisted for the 2022 Robert J. DeMott Short Prose contest— was published in Quarter After Eight last month. Funnily, my submission was categorized as fiction, which means I probably misunderstood the contest guidelines. I don’t think its genre matters, though.

I wrote “Armor” in November of last year. Among the poems I’ve written lately, this is one of my favorites. There was a conscious effort to thin the veil that, in the past, I wielded as both technique and defense mechanism.

“Phoenix”, written in 2021, is forthcoming in Meridian. In retrospect, I see the seeds of “Armor” in this one. In both, I examine the capricious, amorphous nature of my identity as a young woman coming of age in a fast, violent, noisy, beautiful, electric, highly material world, but in “Phoenix” this consciousness was still nebulous. “Armor” understands it.

I am already 25—or, I am only 25. I don’t need to decide what kind of writer I am yet. Moving is the most important thing; one foot in front of the other.