So, I do art.
Okay, I do “writing,” which sometimes falls under the header of “art” and sometimes doesn’t. But I do it. I do it all the time. I was having a conversation with my therapist this past week where I addressed how it’s this all-consuming thing. When I define myself a “writer” or an “artist,” I’m not describing what I do for a hobby, or my ideal career, or what I studied in college. It’s not like describing a day job, “I’m a nurse” or “I’m an accountant,” because yes, you are those things when you’re doing nursing or when you’re accounting, but are you still those things when it’s all said and done? When you take off the scrubs or the tie, when you go home and sit down, either alone or with your family or roommates or pets, what are you? Are you still a nurse? Still an accountant? Is that what you still actively are? How much does your job describe you?
If you think this line of questioning is pretentious, or silly, or self-absorbed or anything other than just “Ashly tries to share with you the way her fucked-up head works” then stop. I’ll consider you another time, I always try to. But for now I need to talk about me and you’re going to let me. Because if you’re not interested in reading any further, you’re going to stop reading, go away, and come back when times are different.
Being a writer doesn’t stop when I’m not at my computer writing, when I’m not buried in a notebook scribbling down stuff you’ll never see. I’m a writer all the time. Everything I do, or see or experience, that gets filed away for future use. It’s not always intentional, it’s just how the world works for me. Everything is a potential plot twist, every moment a line in a poem that I throw away in frustration.
There’s a great line from The Thirteenth Tale,“Life is compost.” It’s what writers let gather up and rot and then we grow something out of it, something different, and something that will end up as someone else’s compost when it’s all said and done.
But the point here is that when you’re always a writer, when it’s not just a job or a pastime, when you describe yourself to people as “a writer,” you have to deal with a lot of weirdness and discomfort. Oh, so, who do you write for? What have you published? Oh, nothing? Well, then that’s not really your JOB, is it? It’s just a thing you do. Why not just write a novel, how hard can it be? Oh, well, of course, I haven’t written one because I’m not a writer, but if I were I’d be rolling in money because it seems so simple.
You know what I sometimes think would be simple? If I had wanted to be something else. If I had been a writer who also wanted to be something practical, something I could easily explain. Yes, I’m a writer, but my job is…fill in the blank.
It wouldn’t be, though. It’d be difficult in a different way. And I might have needed to be good at math.
The point is, coming to terms with “writer” as a label also means questioning things like “do I deserve to want people to read what I write?” And “do I deserve to want to get paid?” And of course “do I deserve to want to get paid for writing the things I want to write, rather than just the topic the website I’m writing for wants me to post about?” I’ve been made to feel guilty about all of these things by various people and comments and my own fucked-up head. I hear I’m talented, but releasing my work tends to lead to…nothing. No comments, no questions, no feedback. Let’s not even talk about the possibility of money.
And the topic of self promotion becomes even messier. Am I being annoying? Have I told everyone about this and if I post about it again am I going to seem nagging? Is it not that people don’t KNOW about what I have out there, not that they need a reminder, but that they genuinely don’t CARE. That they’ll cheer for my continued and repeated attempts, but will stop just short of actually consuming my work, of throwing me a few bucks for my trouble.
Is everyone lying to me, is this all some sick joke or attempt to not hurt my feelings? Am I not really a writer, but the world’s afraid to tell me that because you know how us writer types are?
All leading up to…a reminder that I have a collection of short fiction I just published.
That’s right. It’s a fucking commercial.
But it’s also a way of saying that if you are sick of hearing about this, if you are wondering why I won’t shut the fuck up about the damn thing, then again. Stop. You know where the unfollow button is. You know how to opt out of dealing with me. Because I don’t have time for outside negative bullshit right now, I’ve got enough of my own.
What I’m promoting is something I’ve done, on my own, on my own terms, because this is how I want it done. And if I really have an audience, really do have people who want to see what I have to say, what I can grow out of my compost, then this is the chance to find out.
It’s pay what you want. It’s free if that’s your sort of thing, but if you want to throw a few bucks at me, I’m not going to turn you down. It’s 7 stories, 6 of them are older works that have been out there, for free. #7 is something I’ve been holding onto that was meant to be in an anthology that unfortunately was cancelled for funding reasons. It’s one of my favorite things I’ve ever written.
It also contains a story one of my best friends says is her favorite thing I’ve ever written.
It also contains my mother’s favorite story I’ve written. It’s a different story from the other two. And makes me wonder a lot about my mother.
The same site also has available for download a short chapbook of butt poems. Yes, you read that correctly. Butt poems. It’s terrible and I love it.
I’m a writer. I never stop being a writer. I don’t know how to stop being a writer and honestly sometimes it really fucking sucks. But if this is what I’m going to be, I’m going to be it loudly and aggressively and, maybe one day, without fear or remorse.
