So I'm back in New York. For some one who hates moving around, I do a lot of it. On Saturday I finished packing my bags, spent the rest of the day telling myself that New York is where I need to be (for the time being) and then boarded the train tearfully as my mom and brother waved goodbye to me.
It sucked hardcore.
I know that I am here for the right reasons. I am gaining experience, learning more and more things about what I want for my life, and yadda yadda yadda, but when I sat down in my seat on the Amtrak train bound for New York all of that flew out the window. I wanted to stop the train and get off. I loved being home, I mean I wouldn't love it for ever, but I love that at this point I can go home whenever I want, for as long as I want without any 'real' worry. But I know that won't be the case soon, unless I win the lottery, write a bestseller, or marry someone really rich (which is lame), because at some point I will have a job that requires me to be their throughout the whole year. I can't decide to take 6 weeks off and lay in bed at my moms house. Not if I get a real job anyway.
I know that writing is like the hardest career ever. Sure there are a handful of bestselling authors but honestly how many people out there are attempting to write to become one of those bestselling authors or an award winning journalist. Everyone thinks they can write and in doing so becoming a legit author is hard. I mean sure you have your fluke successes like Stephenie Meyers but for the most part for every real writer there is, there are a billion other people who think they can write.
This guy at work wants to be a writer too, he told me so after I talked to him about the few workshops I have taken and that I may want to pursue an MFA. He was almost offended by this, he wanted to take the Keroaucan approach to writing sans school but a lot of boozy with friends. The only reason he wants to write is so that he can sell one big novel, have that novel be turned into a movie, and there you have it... a life of luxury.
It's like the reason people want to become actors. Sometimes its not even because they love the craft so much, but jut because of the money and fame. I'm just saying. I love writing, and I hope I am successful at it. I want to be able to take care of my family, especially my mom but I also want to be good at it. I want to be respected by the small clique of good writers out there. But that seems so hard to do.
I've only been in New York for two days, and the homesickness is killing me again. Not as bad as the first time but still a little tough to deal with. I have to keep reminding myself why I am here. I keep picturing the goals I have set for my life, just so I understand that I have to be a part of the grind before I can be who I want to be and do what I want to do.
I am ready to admit something finally. Something I have been very elusive about on this blog. For the last ten years I have lived in South Carolina. I don't know why that was so hard to type.I don't know why I have not wanted to disclose this little bit of information. But that's why I always refer to the distance from my childhood home to my teenage home as "The Big Move". My mom and dad were both born in the Carolina region. My dad moved to New York by himself when he was 14. My mom moved to New York when she was 12 from Charleston South Carolina. Though my brother and I were born and raised in New York I have always been embarrassed about my southern roots. I don't know why yet.
I moved to South Carolina when I was 12 years old, and sometimes I have the accent to show for it. The South is a weird place. It is full of tradition and history along with hypocrisy which carries with it a mix of ignorance. If you ever been there, the scenery can be quite haunting and beautiful. The trees are old and the branches sort of cave over the streets creating tunnels of foliage and shadows. I live down the street from several farms with red barns and cows grazing on the field. I drive past more pick up trucks then compact cars, and football is huge. The parts of the South I like will never make up for the parts I don't like but after years of hating the South so much I am not to frightened to admit that it's home to me.
I never felt entirely comfortable there. I never really belonged and because of this I spent a lot of time by myself, listening to Ryan Adams on lazy Sundays, and writing so much that I have a writers wart on my pointer finger. But after 10 years of southern accents, sweet tea, and churches on every corner, ten years away from the toughness of New York and sparkling lights of the city I have to admit that the South has shaped who I am. In that writing workshop I took my last year of college, someone compared all of my stuff to southern Gothic literature and at first I was offended. But now I realize that the place has influenced me a little, and I can't deny that forever. I do miss being inspired by trees and the silence, I do miss the sweetness and simplicity, and though I don't plan on ever living there again, I do need to escape there every once in a while to regenerate and find solace, if anything else.
I hope one day that I will have a career where 'escapes to writing haven' is a part of my job description. Because though I am back in New York preparing to start my internship, preparing to get this writing career off the ground, preparing for my real life to begin, I do miss the hot sweltering heat, I miss the view from my window, and I miss the silence.
Anyway.
Time to unpack, even though I now reside in my aunts living room so my things are literally in a corner on the floor. Damn, I know signed up for this but my back hurts from sleeping on the cough. Hopefully when my cousin heads back to school, I can upgrade to the bedroom. Fingers crossed.
YES. you must go see Sufjan. go alone. get your ticket ASAP. you'll be happy you did.
have you thought of trying to find an informal writers' workshop/group to participate in? I know a fair number of people who have (or had) groups like this, and found them really helpful for feedback, for structure, for making them write (and for making them keep working on pieces).
My acquaintance, who has an MFA in poetry, is a bad example. She only writes poetry when in the structured environment of school, and she has never sent anything out for publication.
This is how NOT to be a writer. you have to write, and send shit out (A LOT) and accept the many rejection letters that come along until one day, someone says: "hey, we'd like to publish your short story."
if you want to do it (and I think you do), then you have to DO it. I say get a writers' market book, start revising/editing, and send some stories out to small journals and such. see what happens.
The Carolinas' are an Eden. The entire South is where we, as americans, have our roots. All of us. As a longtime guitar player, all my threads can be traced back to that area. I'm a proud yankee, my cotton fields are rocks stacked haphazardly to form the fields the farmers worked. My town has old mills where the cotton was dyed and military blankets made to cover the dead in the civil war. The war was our penance, the suffering was shared. But we wrote and still write different ways. Ryan Adams is my guy. He's the latest in a long line of american songwriters. from Woody Guthrie to Bob Dylan. With a lot of people in between. I've rambled too much. Write because you love it. Write because words won't lie to you. Words will never let you down.
3 comments:
YES. you must go see Sufjan. go alone. get your ticket ASAP. you'll be happy you did.
have you thought of trying to find an informal writers' workshop/group to participate in? I know a fair number of people who have (or had) groups like this, and found them really helpful for feedback, for structure, for making them write (and for making them keep working on pieces).
My acquaintance, who has an MFA in poetry, is a bad example. She only writes poetry when in the structured environment of school, and she has never sent anything out for publication.
This is how NOT to be a writer. you have to write, and send shit out (A LOT) and accept the many rejection letters that come along until one day, someone says: "hey, we'd like to publish your short story."
if you want to do it (and I think you do), then you have to DO it. I say get a writers' market book, start revising/editing, and send some stories out to small journals and such. see what happens.
Nice piece.
The Carolinas' are an Eden.
The entire South is where we, as americans, have our roots. All of us.
As a longtime guitar player, all my threads can be traced back to that area.
I'm a proud yankee, my cotton fields are rocks stacked haphazardly to form the fields the farmers worked.
My town has old mills where the cotton was dyed and military blankets made to cover the dead in the civil war.
The war was our penance, the suffering was shared. But we wrote and still write different ways.
Ryan Adams is my guy. He's the latest in a long line of american songwriters. from Woody Guthrie to Bob Dylan. With a lot of people in between. I've rambled too much.
Write because you love it. Write because words won't lie to you. Words will never let you down.
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