Not Everyone Can Be a Writer

That one line from a new acquaintance was all I needed to hear

“So, what do you do?” someone recently asked me.

I hesitated a bit too long, before a friend jumped in “She’s a writer. She’s really good.”

I waited for their reaction, anticipating scorn or ridicule. I had to stop myself from blurting out: Oh, she’s simply being a good friend. I’m here because I took a break from my career.

But instead, I was surprised when they, with a look of awe on their face, said “It’s not easy doing that. Not everyone can be a writer. It requires imagination and courage.” And they wanted to know more, to live vicariously through my story of following my heart.

It was this fleeting interaction that made me re-believe in what I do.

I’ve been writing in some form or the other all my life. But ever since I became a full-time writer a couple months ago, fulfilling a life-long dream of mine, I’ve been feeling like an imposter.

Somehow, introducing myself as “an aspiring writer, hidden behind the persona of an engineer + finance professional stuck in a tech career” seemed an easier sell.

Perhaps because everyone in the circles I hung out with loved to bitch about the evils of capitalism and the corporate world, and how our souls were trapped in invisible bottles formed out of our parents’ / society’s wishes. It was easier to explain away days devoid of motivation as an extension of this fate. And it was easier to dismiss elusive promotions as corporate America’s Squid Games, a mad race with poorly defined rules; to do or die.

We also found it entertaining to sit and wonder what our lives could have been, if only we had (the guts to have) chosen our heart’s way. We air-drew silhouettes of lives we could’ve been living with our exaggerated, untapped potentials.

But now that the day is here, why can’t I embody the title gracefully? I guess I can think of a few reasons why.

Writing is a hobby, not a career

I have one long-standing grudge, though I’m not one to usually have regrets: I wish I could’ve pursued my education in a literary field.

I get it is not a pre-requisite to be a good writer, but blinded by “the grass is always greener” rhetoric, I imagine the rigor of a formal degree would’ve allowed my mind to be immersed in the world of books, authors, genres and styles.

I can’t help but feel like the time I spent studying microprocessors and instrumentation controls could have been better spent dissecting Hamlet or The Great Gatsby. I would’ve loved getting lost in my mind for homework assignments: building character upon character, drawing a setting over a scene and channeling my own life’s experiences into little conflicts in my plot.

But I didn’t have the opportunity. It was consistently reinforced to me that having an illustrious career was our objective. It is our backbone, allowing us the ability to afford the luxuries life has to offer. Living comfortably was the goal and writing was not going to be the bridge to get there, only an engineering or medical degree could.

Because writing doesn’t pay. It doesn’t provide you with a cushy retirement fund for the future.(Unless you had tremendous luck, which, per my family, was not something we had in abundance or could rely on.)

I was encouraged to write, though. A hobby was necessary, a creative pursuit was a sure shot way to expand the brain’s elasticity and capacity. But it is best to relegate the activity to the occasional hour here and there, or to the weekends.

And this is exactly how the next couple of decades of my life played out, on a cookie cutter path of collective aspirations, eventually leading to me question the motive of my existence.

Self-worth vs. Net worth, the eternal struggle

Quick note: Money and success are relative, so anything I quote is by my own standards and in comparison to the average of the demographic I belong to: mid 30s, brown, on a visa in the U.S, master’s degree, non-ivy league education etc. I also recognize and acknowledge that my situation has privilege written all over it.

In the past 5 years, I earned a lot as an employee of a Silicon Valley tech giant which grew exponentially in size, market cap and stock price since I had joined. I was also really good at my job and saw myself grow up the ladder in title, position and responsibility. I felt accomplished. I was beginning to believe this was it — I liked what I was doing and was good at it — an acceptable settlement in lieu of being a writer.

Of course, reality was to be different.

I gave it my all, which basically meant I (was) over-worked, sacrificing personal space to chase arbitrary deadlines set by leadership that everyone knew could never be achieved, but we still had to try. Saying no was not an option. We pushed ourselves so hard we deserved “pats on our back” and call-outs in “town halls and all-hands meetings”. Oh, the recognition!

Because when the going gets tough, the tough get going. Going out the door was more like it, in my case at least. I burnt out, convinced myself money wasn’t important, and I quit, all the while crying, in denial and defiance, that I tried, I really really tried.

Suddenly, I was out of the game — no title, no bonus, no stocks, no bi-monthly pay check — a big, long part of my identity was gone.

Even though it was what I always wanted — time to rest, time to regain the life I felt I was missing out on while stuck in full-day meetings, and maybe even time to resurrect the writer status that I had buried long ago (or temporarily de-prioritized, as I liked to deflect) — it felt awkward and unnatural.

The discomfort was expected, yet a lot of it was a reflection of my declining mental health, which soon became top of my list of Things to work on.

When Mental Health is lost, everything is lost

“You, yourself, as much as anybody in the entire universe, deserve your love and affection.” — Buddha

Half-way through my serious business woman persona, I started to feel like I was on a journey with no destination. The more heights I scaled, the more there was to go. There was no ceiling to how much ambition I could have, and except for profit, both for the organization and myself, I wasn’t doing much else to be proud of.

I wasn’t saving lives or eradicating poverty. I wasn’t rallying or protesting for civil rights. I was working to make the rich richer and to add zeroes to the top line of their balance sheets. It was a choice, for sure, but I didn’t even realize how deep I was into it and complicit I had become.

I was also failing on the family front. Working 20 hour days meant I wasn’t there for my partner when he was grieving the tragic loss of his father last year. I peppered in calls to my baby nephew and parents in Boston, infrequent and hurried, leaving me yearning for more each time.

I was anxious all the time, had chest pains and headaches, signs of my body begging me to slow down. Soon depression crept in, and I wanted to sleep to ignore the failure I was. I can’t do anything right, I’m pathetic!

Therapy was my haven, a mortal need more than a mere want. It was the only way I could synthesize what my life had become, what it lacked. I poured my heart and soul into conversations with my therapist; many a tissue box lay on the side, empty and soiled.

I didn’t like what I was learning about myself. I didn’t know whether to prioritize myself, my career, my passion or my family. They were all so intermingled, there was no right answer.

But, here’s the silver lining

As with all dark clouds, I had a ray of sunshine: my family and friends (and therapy). They stood by my side throughout, encouraged me to take a break and start writing again.

I’m now finally free to own my schedule — write when I want to, head to the beach mid week or to enjoy the heady silence of being in the library, surrounded by story-filled books.

I don’t have the excuse of lack of time anymore so bit by bit, day by day, with the help of medication, tons of rest and my rock-solid support system, I’m clawing myself back up to equilibrium.

I write, therefore I am a Writer

I’m still finding my footing in this new world. My niche is broad, and it is that I write from personal experience. When people reach out to tell me that my work resonates with them, it exhilarates me. Like I’m living out my purpose — this is what I’m meant to do, to let people know they’re not alone; we’re in this together.

There are so many brilliant writers out there to read and learn from. Writers who have been doing this forever, more articulate, more real, with a clear voice and a genre their writing fits right into. The competition is stiff but this isn’t a race, I remind myself. I just need to lean into myself and better what I do. Read, expand and evolve.

If you’re second guessing yourself today, are facing writer’s block or are questioning your worth as a writer, know that it is a phase and it shall pass.

Writing is an art: Of stringing words together with meaning and intent, pregnant with emotions and feelings; tugging at and taunting the reader to remember shared experiences.

If you can do that, you’re a writer. You have to learn to trust it.

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