When I was five years old, I appeared on TV to seal my fate and (perhaps preemptively) answer the question of what I was going to do with my life. I was part of an arts and writing program that my kindergarten teacher was piloting, and this made news. When the TV reporter asked me if I wanted to be a writer when I grew up, I screwed my face and corrected her. “I am a writer,” I said. Oh, to have the deluded self-confidence of my five-year-old self. An MFA, one book, and many published essays, columns, and short stories later, and I have a fraction of that confidence in claiming the title "Writer." What the heck happened?
Of course there’s no dearth of material about the self-loathing writer. In fact, Michelle Filgate wrote a phenomenal article on this topic earlier this month for Salon that opens with the line, "Self-loathing is in the writer's blood." One has to be incredibly self-obsessed to be mired in one’s thoughts all day, or as long as it takes to access them and place them on the page with the right amount of aesthetic enthusiasm. And then sell the page to an agent or editor or publisher. And then promote the page by any means necessary. At the end of the day, a writer’s job is to take something so private it lives in the recesses of her mind and make it public, which is no easy task. There’s much speculation about the writer living on the periphery (I’m borrowing from Joan Didion here) in order to observe and then create something worthwhile. But the days of the introverted mad woman scribbling away in the attic are gone (unless she’s got one hell of a Twitter feed). These days, a writer must be adept at repositioning her self-obsession as self-promotion, which takes a lot more fearlessness, and, as I learned is quite a different beast.
My first publication (at 7 years old): a poem, "The Fog," in JACK AND JILL Magazine
No one can adore your work as much as you do. You have to stand behind it; in front of it; next to it on a variety of social media and real time platforms (and it doesn’t hurt to look fabulous and effortlessly gorgeous while doing so). So what happens when the world doesn’t mirror back to you those same sentiments of adoration? Hello, self-loathing! I mean, there has to be something wrong with you, right? At least that’s what happened to me. When I held the first copy of my debut novel Beautiful Garbage (She Writes, 2013) in my hands, I cried. The tears were not of joy or accomplishment, but of relief. I had done it; now I could breathe. If only it were that easy. The relief was palpable for mere moments. Then came the panic of how much of a success the book was going to be (even though I’d been reviewed favorably in Publishers Weekly, Small Press Picks, and by some of my literary heroines (including Cat Marnell, Beth Bosworth, Ivy Pochoda, Rachel Kramer Bussel, Ruth Fowler, and Elisa Albert)). How many other writers feel this way, I wonder? And why is relief the reigning emotion?
I threw a book party with a burlesque dancer and complimentary tequila and nail polish that made it into the New York social diaries. But it was not enough. I was the same person. My life hadn’t exponentially changed after publishing a book. All I could think was: what gives?
I did a sexy photo shoot with male models to promote the book. I did another photo shoot and interview with VICE Magazine proving not only that I had sex appeal (because that’s what sells literary fiction, right?) but also street cred with the downtown Manhattan scene I chronicle in my novel. Can you see me now, world; can you recognize my talent? My Huffington Post columns landed me some guest appearances on TV where I would try to peddle my novel, but to the producers, a book--my book--seemed to be an afterthought; or at least in my mind that's how it was.
Photo by Matt Licari featuring me and male model/DJ Aaron Johnson. Wickedly self-indulgent or good marketing?
Despite the readings, publications, monies earned from selling books, I felt worthless. Even worse, my self-promotion left me feeling shallow and self-indulgent. The more I put myself out there, the more I had a need to be validated, and for things that seemed to have little to do with actual writing talent. The thing is, I had built up the dream of being a writer in such a grandiose fashion that there was no way real life could match my expectations. Suddenly, I became irrationally angry at Columbia University for granting me an MFA; my parents for not forcing me into law school; my friends for not buying multiple copies of my book; the world for not telling me how special I am in exactly the way I needed to hear it. Please tell me I'm not alone in feeling this way. (No really, share your stories in the comments section.)
Surely, Dr. Phil would help me sell books ...
I felt like I’d worked so hard and the results just weren’t paying off. But like any self-help guru will tell you, I couldn’t change reality--but I could change my perception of it. What publishing has taught me is a huge life lesson: Learn how to manage your expectations before they consume you. For the majority of us, one book (just like one relationship or one job or one haircut, for that matter) isn’t going to change our lives. That goes against everything our acquisition-oriented culture tells us. But change really comes in the small steps we take each day. Writing is a skill, a craft, a discipline, and a talent; it is not therapy, though it does have the power to heal. Self-promotion comes with the territory if you want to sell books and perpetuate the curated image of an author (which by all means entails palling around with male models … because, why not? It’s all part of the fantasy.) The only advice I can offer is: Don’t become a secret agent who falls for her own cover story. Just as you know the difference between the “I” on the page and the “I” that is you, know how to navigate the construction of yourself as an author. Is this duplicitous or unnecessarily strategic or ultimately part of what it means to be a modern day writer? Can you publish without selling a cultivated image of yourself?
I've come to terms with the fact that I most certainly will have to make a living doing something other than writing books. That doesn’t make writing any less of a noble practice, but it does make it tricky and sometimes thankless, at least in a monetary sense, as we all need to make a living (especially to pay back our student loans). But if writing is your calling, as sentimental as that may seem, then you have to hold on to that, and tightly, when the world does not (and it probably will not) validate your version of what it means to be a writer. Only you can do that. So channel your inner five-year-old. She’s wise in her naiveté.
Do writing and vanity go hand in hand? And is self-loathing the flip side of vanity? How can writers manage these feelings? How can we self-promote without selling our souls (or bods?) And what was I thinking with those hot pink nails?
Jill Di Donato is a She Writes Press author and writer in New York City.
I"m not sure if writing and vanity always go hand in hand but putting any part of ourselves out there can feel like vanity to those of us raised by folks who placed a premium on privacy or modesty which, if not sincere, can be a form of vanity. The problem is, it seems, that if you try to cordon off one aspect of your life/character/thoughts/, you end up closing off things that you need to write. This was a thought-provoking post.
I believe almost anything can change your life - a book, Dr. Phil, an illness -- it's how much passion, faith or fear it engenders.
Isn't self-loathing a form of vanity... at its cruelest, perhaps, but... it's still all about "I" and "me". If vanity is our "inner princess", then self-loathing is our "inner martyr". We're still 'bitch-slapping"’.. just ourselves instead of someone else.
Self-loathing is the voice of our inner martyr... giving voice to our fears and uncertainties... "What if I'm not good enough?" ... "Oh, honey, what do mean "if"?" ... "What makes you think you're a writer, Veronica? You barely passed English, and then you had to fuck the teacher... oh, wait... that was your psych professor you were fucking, wasn't it?"
But, you know what? I AM a writer! I take those inner voices... the princess... the drama queen... the bitch... the martyr... and I write. I write about myself, my past, my relationships - this is the therapy of writing. I write noir fiction as well, drawing on myself, my past, my relationships as well as the world around me and all I have experienced or want to.
I didn’t ask to be a writer, but like our sexual orientation… we aren’t given a choice. I’m not sure we have much choice in what we write about either. I refer to genres of fiction. I write mostly noir fiction, a little bit of horror and some psychological thriller, not because I live or have lived a life of crime and know things… but because of my own life experiences. The saying “Write what you know” doesn’t mean what a lot of people think it means. I’ve never stolen or robbed a bank, for example, but I can write about them because I can put myself there. And that’s what we do, isn’t it?
I like what you say, @SomerEmpress. I started writing seriously as part of therapy and slowly realized that I had a voice and a minor talent that deserved more than the cloistered pages of my journals. Oh, I resisted my therapist’s – she would call “suggestions”; I prefer “edicts” – that I write about what had happened. Not just the kidnapping and six months of hell, but my “outing” and my life after I attempted suicide. She said that “darkness cannot survive in light”. She was right, as it turns out. I guess the good doctor is worth her outrageous rates. But, she ain't getting a cut of my earnings as a writer.
I just reviewed the TOC for a femme fatales anthology I have a story in, due out in February 2014. This will be my seventh one and I still get a chill, seeing my name next to all those writers and authors. I no longer feel like an imposter. I don’t ask myself what am I doing pretending to be a writer, because you know what?
I AM a writer!
"Writing is a skill, a craft, a discipline, and a talent; it is not therapy, though it does have the power to heal. ". It certainly does have the power to heal--I wrote about it here after writing the first draft of my first novel in NaNoWriMo 2012 (http:/
Like you, Jill, I can now confidently and unequivocally say "I am a writer"--in fact, that is often my response when asked what I do--though I remain unpublished and unreviewed. Nonetheless, I can see how becoming published revisits the need for validation in an industry saturated with writers, editors, readers, and publishers.
Hopefully, I will recall this article when it's my turn and remember not to take it personal. :)
Thank you, Jill. Your post makes me feel less alone. I can relate to everything you're feeling, and as wonderful as the experience has been, it has been equally if not more disheartening. Why can't it just be wonderful?
Carole,
yes, I agree sometimes it's the "timing" or the subject matter. Of all my books spread out over a 42 year career...one of my newest (that I self-published, my first) Dinosaur Lake is selling like hotcakes...more than anything else I've ever written...with little or no promotion. Good and bad reviews. I believe it's the timing and the subject: dinosaurs. Strange, it outsells all my 17 other novels combined and is now up for a 2014 EPICS eBook Award in their Suspense/Thriller category to be awarded in March. The reading public and reviewers...who can figure them out? I never could/can. I just keep writing and believing in myself-always.
Thanks, Meg!
Here's an article that sheds more light on it:
http:/
FJ Nanic, thank you for expressing with lyric elegance what I could not.
If some of y'all are Zen masters, that's cool -- others of us are still working things out. :)
Sorry, love. After I read half of this, I grew tired of the thinly veiled self-promotion (no, please, drop another name) and decided to leave this comment. Good luck on the book.
My first reaction, after I read the title was—yes! Indeed. I feel the same. Thirty years of writing just enhanced the way I always thought. It also taught me about damnation and liberation. But self-loathing? At times my fountain pen was a blade fixed in stone. No matter what I tried, some things were stone-written unlike those in the sand, or in water. It’s because I was after the truth, fascinated by alliterations. I became a fervent maker outer, kissing all those magic words hanging off my lips, as if I was tapping into a velvet minefield. I researched the truth, confused going back and forth, straying left and right until I became the very path. I was asking too many questions though, trying to fathom it all, deprived of that basic amount of love our inner children were supposedly prescribed. The only moments of self-loathing were if I’d accidentally betray the truth carried away neglecting it unintentionally. Obviously, I was not made for fiction. I nearly hated it, the same way I hated lies; I was a sucker for true stories. Maybe self-loathing comes from that? Voluntarily enclosed within four walls pounding away: all those fascinating characters and riveting plots streaming like inviting flags of a shimmering holidaze…and then selling it pre-packaged with a few freebies thrown in.
It is uncanny that I write this article just after watching The Illusionist. An amazing film. Fiction or not, it had a wonderful message, and until the last minute one was kept on his toes. But true love won; it’s all that mattered. Moreover, it was masterfully told. Perhaps that’s the point of good fiction… Stick that sharp fountain pen between our ribs and carve in a heart-written story, a hope that lingers until it burns off like a fog. But then the sun shines through and everything is the way it should be, or at least bearable, if not a dream came true. Don’t forget one simple fact: all the power the illusionist acquired helped him win his childhood love back, but then he left all that power behind. They met at the foot of a mountain, by a lonely cabin, away from the insatiable crowd...
We either stick with the love of power, or the power of love; we can’t nourish both within the same heart. Thus with writing: it’s a power of expression, the means to fathom the truth, or find a true love. But then we are to cherish it. You are to realize it’s not about peddling your novels, while selling yourself smartly. It’s about the ultimate message of it all. What gives? Well, what do you want? Do you want to be an illusionist keeping the world perpetually mesmerized, performing ever-new tricks, attracting true love like a magnet, or you want to truly feel it in your bones? Without it, you’ll be alone deep inside, throwing another burlesque dinner party. As the years roll by, and Santa starts resembling your next door neighbor on the doll, your best and only bet become The Conversations With God, unless you decide to confine yourself to your own private little Hell.
Can you publish without selling a cultivated image of yourself?
I guess not. Hence many talented writers are still in the closet nowadays. But that’s another can of warms. It’s a catch 22—needless to mention all the scam publishers taking advantage of poor people’s dreams.
In my experience, the biggest factor in the "success" of a book is timing, and the timing of the subject matter (and with fiction, often the style) rather than the amount or velocity of promotion. Some subjects will catch on with the public at the exact time of publication; others won't no matter how hard we try -- even if the media is willing to buy in. I think one of the greatest insights we can have about ourselves as writers (and as publishers, and especially self-publishers where the investment is so total) is how our creative selves stand in relation to time, and to the times in which we live. Some authors instinctively (or strategically) land right on the nose in terms of what captures the public; some are way ahead and others are slow processors, sifting and sorting the past. All are fine. The trick is to know ourselves well enough that we don't become swamped by our own demands, depleted with exhaustion, or too involved with wounds to the creative ego that we cannot do what next must be done.
Mrs. Jill is utterly honest in everything she writes about, including the "hot pink nails":). In fact, she is so true that I got scared simply by reading her story. If that's the way a writer feels, really, truly feels, then I thank my 7 years old ME for not giving up the dream of becoming a teacher and for keeping me real in this life. I must admit, I know nothing about feelings like those described by Mrs. Jill, I never felt that way after publishing each of my three humble books but I do feel sad and not accomplished when a student does not speak Finnish after 5 months of learning it with me. I write poetry, I translate poetry most of the time, I write essays and my true Muse is life, my daily life while teaching, meeting people from all over the world, helping them to build a life in their new country, Finland. I forgot to mention that I am also a coordinator for immigrants in Finland, most of them refugees. Their life stories become my life stories. They are my heroes. Their culture transplanted into Finnish soil becomes my "poetry to translate, languages to learn" subject. I consider myself the luckiest "she writes": it is always an honour and a privilege to get to know new people, different people, wonderful people. They learn to live, they write, they sing and dance in the language I teach them and I get to write about them. What else can a writer desire? There is no vanity, no self-loathing, no need to promote anything. I simply write, my students are my first readers and critics. They also spread the word all over their native countries and suddenly I am a shyly famous "thing". Isn't that a perfect symbiosis?
We write because we must. It is our nature. I'm disappointed that your teachers and mentors didn't prepare you. To use an overused image, you've claimed a mountain. Enjoy the view. You shouldn't have been surprised to find its actually a mountain range you are navigating. Also the goal, in my opinion, should never be fame but improving your craft, because there are a lot easier ways to gain that.
Best wishes on your journey, but rather than a manicure you should buy a new pair of shit-stmpers or hiking boots.
FYI, I went the other route. No MFA etc for me, unless you count excellent writing conferences in abundance. I've just signed a two book deal with a small press. I expect nothing on the other side except an increased level of competency in my craft.
I suspect I'm like most SheWriters: I write because I have a story to tell. It's a story I WANT to tell in whatever way I can: by writing a book, by speaking to audiences, by being interviewed, by enthralling (well, I hope!) people at cocktail parties. It's not self-promotion, it's not book-selling, it's opening a conversation about a story I care about. What people do with that information (ask me follow-up questions, buy my book, beeline for the artichoke dip) is up to them. If I keep my focus on the story I want to tell and mark my success by how people respond to my story-telling, I'm a happier camper.
Kelly Hayes-Raitt
http:/
Mosey on over to my web site to download an mp3 of me reading my first chapter -- about an Iraqi beggar with whom I shared an ice cream in pre-war Baghdad.
P.S. Teresa and Pamela, you both are FABULOUS story-tellers -- passionate and talented. I'm nearly finished with Teresa's Last Chance for Justice about the conviction of Bobby Frank Cherry 33 years after he participated in the bombing of the 16th St Baptist Church in Birmingham where 4 little girls perished. Great (and true!) crime procedural. And I loved Pamela's Fast Times in Palestine about her political awakening in the West Bank.
Hi Jill-Thank you for your candidness on this difficult topic. I have written for almost 40 years and always dreamed I would find an agent who would take from me the burden of finding a publisher who would take from me the burden of marketing, and I could then focus on what I love to do--write. Maybe that existed at some point when I was dreaming, but now (although I have a wonderful agent and have been published) it is very obvious that was a fantasy. Throughout my life, the one job that sent shivers of dread up my spine was being a salesperson, yet I've had to learn how to be one for the sake of my "children." I am often uncomfortable in that role, although I confess after my first book came out, I was at first depressed because I had lost the voices in my head (I know; there are pills for that) and then so excited I wanted to grab everyone I saw, regardless of whether I knew them, and say "I wrote a book!" In fact, I did that at checkout counters, much to my husband's bemusement (I hope that's what it was). I've calmed down now, gone through the cycles you mentioned and moved on. A writer writes.
Yep -- after you just climbed Mt. Everest, people don't come up to you and say, "So, when are you gonna climb it again?"
As you are lying in bed after giving birth, no one says, "Wow, so when are you gonna have another kid?"
But when I published my first book, one of the most frequent questions I got was, "So what's your next book about?"
As it happens, I had another book in mind and partially drafted (though, as I mentioned, I haven't worked on it as much as I would like this year). But I still wanted to punch those people in the neck just a li'l bit.
I think there is a depression that follows the completion of any major piece of work----years ago I completed my doctoral thesis and after that I didn't read a book more challenging than the TV Guide or write a single word---not a thank you or condolence note for an entire year---I was wrung out. I didn't need to go on the road and publicize it, but I was still lost after having such an intense focus end.
Wow, Patty Cogen -- you really hit the nail on the head!! Thanks for articulating something I've been trying to articulate to myself for quite some time...
I definitely had a little "post-partum depression" after the publication of my first book. I felt like Inigo Montoya from The Princess Bride: I had avenged my father (or in my case, published a book). Now what?
Well, of course, bask in your glory and work on a second book, right? Except with all the endless promotion and touring and begging for press and getting used to my spot on the midlist after dreams of making a career out of something I loved, I barely had the time or energy to even think about a second book. All the joy seemed drained out of everything. Self-promotion just feels icky.
And when you go about it in that roundabout way where you join things and do favors and whatnot, but really all you care about is letting the world know about your own book... Well, that feels worse because it makes you feel small and deceptive (even if you really do hope your book will make the world a slightly better place if enough people read it). If I enjoyed endless social media and "cultivating a persona" for the modern press and schmoozing, it'd be a lot easier. Because I don't enjoy it, it's clear I'm only doing it as a means to an end (if I'm doing it at all), and that's rarely fun. It drains the life out of you as sure as some office job you don't enjoy.
(If I had connections, it'd also be easier to get a New York Times review. Man, some utter crap gets reviewed there -- connections matter a lot more than people let on.)
The good news is, nearly a year has passed since publication, and the pressure is off somewhat, because guess what? No one in the media cares about a book that was published a year ago. It's old news. So I'm done with all that. (Not totally done, but at least done feeling like I'm failing if I'm not pushing at every possible moment.)
I release you, book. I'll help you and loan you money and get you at the airport when you need it, but you're done living in my basement. I have a new kid to raise. And I'm delighted to be getting back to what I actually enjoy doing: Writing. Hello, second book.
In any case, I've heard writing another book is one of the best ways to promote your first one... /semi-snark
Sorry to rant a little. Anyone have any tips for making all this a little less painful?
Short Version:
Stick with the honesty and clear-eyed truth of your 5 year old self— You are a writer.
You are NOT a salesperson, so it's no wonder trying to sell anything, including your work, feels at best uncomfortable and at worst depressing.
Long Version:
Promotion of anything---cars, soap, yourself---depends on the saleperson having a ridiculously outsized belief in the product. As a writer (or just a moderately insightful human being) one knows that the product and the producer are imperfect and struggling to just get through each day squeezing out a few moments of contentment.
Consequently when a writer has to sell herself is puts these two opposing points of view into conflict---and that's enough to leave anyone feeling empty---a writer has to tell her truth and then "pimp" it to the world as if it's the only truth, the ultimate truth. Result: self-hatred.
We're all moving towards being amateur writers. That is to say, it becomes less and less likely for most of us to have writing as how we make our primary living. By that standard, we are in the best of company-- Chaucer was an amateur; Jane Austen was an amateur; Virginia Woolf was an amateur. We do it for the love of it.
Hello Jill, I found your post intriguing and thank you for sharing. The problems I've had (with self-image, career, self-confidence) over the years haven't had anything to do with my writing because I started writing only 2 years ago. What you said that struck me specifically:
"Just as you know the difference between the “I” on the page and the “I” that is you, know how to navigate the construction of yourself as an author. Is this duplicitous or unnecessarily strategic or ultimately part of what it means to be a modern day writer? Can you publish without selling a cultivated image of yourself?"
I am currently writing a memoir (mostly likely will be published with SWP) but for me, there is little difference between the "me" on the page [in my memoir] and the "me" that I know. What I write about in my memoir is me, only less because it isn't possible to include all of me (or anyone) in a book. I don't believe we need to create a separate image of ourselves to present to the public, and I have absolutely no intention of doing this. I realize now that this was precisely one of my problems in the past - I was always trying to cram myself into a mold or box or "appropriate" image/behavior/personality that I was never able to fit myself into. It never worked for me and I was always uncomfortable, awkward, self-conscious, etc... trying to do this. I refuse to do this to myself anymore. We should make every effort to be ourselves - after all, who else can we be?
I have been writing over 42 years and have had 18 books, and other things, published. There's been a thousand ups and downs. Good and bad. I still feel, act, live the same as I always have. But...inside I do finally feel like a writer. Have accepted that being a writer is an end all. Life, I've learned, is so much more than writing. Life is living.
Thank you so much for speaking candidly about this. The day my first book was released, I did laundry, worked on projects for clients, went grocery shopping, and took the puppy to his training class graduation. No one gave me a certificate. Fortunately, I had been warned by sister-writers that my world would not change overnight, so I was prepared. I also have had to learn to embrace a new definition of success: I may not earn millions of dollars, but my writing may change lives for the better. That is something I celebrate.