Writer Slash Whatever
I gave blood for the first time yesterday. I wish I'd done it sooner. It was incredibly quick (six minutes and twelve seconds exactly) and the pain that came from it was far less than the damage I'd do to myself over the course of an average week.
Talking to the nurse, I followed my usual compulsion upon meeting a stranger which is to encourage them to write (perhaps a subconscious belief that if I can convince others to write, my workload will somehow lighten). She was hesitant, telling me about her super smart friend who was a writer and reeling off how she knew what all the words were and how to use them. It made me a bit sad to think that this is how siloed off writing can seem from the outside. Especially I am incredibly bad with words and how to use them in any sort of formal way. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate a wordsmith but it was clear to me that this nurse who had spent years observing and working with people from all walks of life might have a great deal to say, certainly more than someone who was dedicated to nailing grammar.
More broadly though, it made me think about how the pandemic has pushed lots of artists I know to look again at how they sit in the world and how much that forms their identity. I suppose a year and a half of social disconnection will do that. When starting out, it was such a big step to be able to call myself a writer. Especially as someone who never imaged it was a role I could inhabit. That 'writer' title is one of those pieces of shell we form around the fragile core of our early work. Now that that core is a little more set (this metaphor fell apart fast, forgive me) I find myself seeking out what else I can do in the world to be more useful. Chekhov was (famously?) a doctor. A couple of friends are training as lawyers so as to help those who need legal aid. One has become a social worker. Many volunteer regularly. Others have simply decided to call it quits from what can be a brutal and hypocritical industry. However - and it seems almost silly to say it - none of that means they've stopped being artist. Because what does it even mean to be an artist? It's definitely not a job title. To me, it's about shaping yourself into a lens through which ideas are refracted. And of course that lens will be reshaped across your life through experiences and choices.
When I'm on panels I often say that the aim isn't to be a full-time writer (which can be a perilous and often unattainable goal) - it's to create good work. So the most important thing you can do is a build a life that supports that, in whatever way makes sense. While my current commitments mean that I've definitely got a couple of years of full-time writing ahead of me, I guess I am starting to think more seriously about how else I could conceive of myself and what else I can do with my years.
(If any relatives are reading this and have got their hopes up: I'm not going off to study medicine. Sorry.)
KITTY KORNER
My cats have turned fourteen this year. Properly old. I'm lucky that my neighbours have found the set of stairs I attached to the window (for the cats to get in and out easily) a charming addition to the block, rather than an eyesore. These furry boys are both a lot sleepier, a little less playful and generally more needy. Incredibly so. I am awful at looking after plants, as the calathea with crispy brown bits next to me can attest to, but I find caring for those two creatures the most meditative of all things. Writing is necessarily so much about ego - wrestling it or calling it up when needed. But it's damaging no matter what you do. So getting to displace ego through care a few times a day is restorative more than it is distracting. In fact, as I write this, Chill Cat has hopped onto the desk with a cute little chirrup and sent my notecards flying.
I couldn't be happier.
Vin x
Talking to the nurse, I followed my usual compulsion upon meeting a stranger which is to encourage them to write (perhaps a subconscious belief that if I can convince others to write, my workload will somehow lighten). She was hesitant, telling me about her super smart friend who was a writer and reeling off how she knew what all the words were and how to use them. It made me a bit sad to think that this is how siloed off writing can seem from the outside. Especially I am incredibly bad with words and how to use them in any sort of formal way. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate a wordsmith but it was clear to me that this nurse who had spent years observing and working with people from all walks of life might have a great deal to say, certainly more than someone who was dedicated to nailing grammar.
More broadly though, it made me think about how the pandemic has pushed lots of artists I know to look again at how they sit in the world and how much that forms their identity. I suppose a year and a half of social disconnection will do that. When starting out, it was such a big step to be able to call myself a writer. Especially as someone who never imaged it was a role I could inhabit. That 'writer' title is one of those pieces of shell we form around the fragile core of our early work. Now that that core is a little more set (this metaphor fell apart fast, forgive me) I find myself seeking out what else I can do in the world to be more useful. Chekhov was (famously?) a doctor. A couple of friends are training as lawyers so as to help those who need legal aid. One has become a social worker. Many volunteer regularly. Others have simply decided to call it quits from what can be a brutal and hypocritical industry. However - and it seems almost silly to say it - none of that means they've stopped being artist. Because what does it even mean to be an artist? It's definitely not a job title. To me, it's about shaping yourself into a lens through which ideas are refracted. And of course that lens will be reshaped across your life through experiences and choices.
When I'm on panels I often say that the aim isn't to be a full-time writer (which can be a perilous and often unattainable goal) - it's to create good work. So the most important thing you can do is a build a life that supports that, in whatever way makes sense. While my current commitments mean that I've definitely got a couple of years of full-time writing ahead of me, I guess I am starting to think more seriously about how else I could conceive of myself and what else I can do with my years.
(If any relatives are reading this and have got their hopes up: I'm not going off to study medicine. Sorry.)
KITTY KORNER
My cats have turned fourteen this year. Properly old. I'm lucky that my neighbours have found the set of stairs I attached to the window (for the cats to get in and out easily) a charming addition to the block, rather than an eyesore. These furry boys are both a lot sleepier, a little less playful and generally more needy. Incredibly so. I am awful at looking after plants, as the calathea with crispy brown bits next to me can attest to, but I find caring for those two creatures the most meditative of all things. Writing is necessarily so much about ego - wrestling it or calling it up when needed. But it's damaging no matter what you do. So getting to displace ego through care a few times a day is restorative more than it is distracting. In fact, as I write this, Chill Cat has hopped onto the desk with a cute little chirrup and sent my notecards flying.
I couldn't be happier.
Vin x
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