On Looking like a Writer

The imperfections aren’t mistakes; they’re part of the rhythm, part of the point. Just like the girl who wrote it.

I am a fraud.  

When I first started writing my memoir, the intention was simple—honesty. An experiment in self-respect. The goal was never publication but to feel better. To throw some form of a sentence onto the page that was revealing, cathartic, truthful—so that I might step away feeling something closer to kindness, maybe even respect, for the girl writing it, crying on her bed in New York City. Could I go so far as to love that person? That would be quite the feat.

The first catharsis resulted in short, jarringly illegible paragraphs –  pages filled with words that isolated my most emotional thoughts. Looking back on my abuse of exclamation points and over capitalized words, I can say that those early drafts obscured more than they revealed. Now, I write with a clarity and a craft that allows my words to be read by people outside my own head and understood. And while, there is so much to be gained from that maturity, I do look back on the earlier writing I dismissed as lesser crap, as a form of work which carried a deeper responsibility. In what couldn’t be deciphered—my mess—was felt.

I felt it writing. My dad felt it reading. Later, my mentor Jackie felt it too. Both reiterating the same point: you have a voice. 

I have a voice? I don’t know how to use commas. I choose the wrong words–plural–to make my point. My spelling has been weak since the third grade, my teacher expressing concern to my parents during mid year evaluations. I couldn’t deny that I had emotions that were disguised as words on a page. But a voice? That was harder to believe. 

Regardless, whether I believed them or not, my insecurity didn’t stop me from trying to write something. From delivering pieces, working through drafts, cutting down the chaos into something legible. And somewhere in revision, my purpose shifted. Suddenly, it wasn’t just about exposing myself to myself or developing compassion for my experiences–it was about being published. About having my work read and better yet, recognized. I needed to hold this book in my hand–the hard and soft of it–and feel its physical weight. To go on book tours, where I would relish the opportunity to speak about the entire experience from its inception. I’d think about all those beds and floors I excused as desks. All the immediate drafts. All the conversations that spiraled into fights. And I’d feel it had all been worth it. 

Only then could I convince myself that my pain had a purpose. 

This process stretched over years—one became two, then four, five, until a decade passed. Eleven, twelve years later, I grew more comfortable saying, “I’m writing a book,” accepting the looks of wonder and amazement that my statement invited—until the inevitable:

“How can I read it?”