On Writing

“Are you a writer?”

The question caught me off guard. I had asked Andrew Sean Greer, author of Villa Coco, the book he was currently promoting, what his ideal environment was when he sat down to write.

“Uh, yes,” I stuttered. He proceeded to give an informative and entertaining answer about some of the things he does that help him hit a thousand words for the day. All the while I had been somehow ashamed of my answer. It’s as if I saw him in that moment as my own subconscious, asking myself if I am in fact a writer.

While I do write, and I have written things, I still don’t primarily identify myself as a writer. Even in my Instagram bio ‘writer’ comes second, and ‘Invader hunter’ comes first. It’s because I associate being a writer as being someone who has been published, and continues to make a career as one. Someone successful, who has just one source of income, and it’s from writing.

Living in Los Angeles it sometimes feels that everyone is a ‘writer.’ Having something actually published or produced is a different story entirely. I was once at a friend’s party several years ago, after having self-published my collection of short stories, and when my friend had mentioned to a guest that I had recently published a book, the person’s eyes lit-up and he began congratulating me and asking me a dozen questions, thinking he was talking to someone on the rise. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I self-published the book through Amazon, and gave him advice that I’ve learned from other more successful writers I’ve admired over the years. I felt like an absolute fraud. Once I saw an opportunity to leave him and the conversation, I took it. He sent me a friend request on Facebook the following day, that I did not accept because I didn’t want to continue with the charade.

For the record, there’s nothing wrong with self-publishing. I’ve self-published my collection of short stories, comic books, anthologies, and zines to varying degrees of success. Nothing that would ever pay my rent or for groceries, but it’s a fantastic way to get your work out there, and sometimes with a quick turnaround as well.

But to actually get published by a reputable publisher? To hold a tangible item in your hands that someone else put together after you submitted the manuscript? And it’s out there, ready to be purchased and read by the public? It’s a feeling like no other.

I have been fortunate to have been published on high-trafficked websites, in graphic novels both foreign and domestic, and even in magazines, with the paystubs to prove it. I wanted to attempt to make it a career at one point as well, even majoring in Creative Writing and being the Arts & Entertainment Editor on the college newspaper. It’s a lovely ambition if you have the means to support yourself, aka a day job or rich parents. For me it was the day job route. While I can switch from both journalist and fiction writer, my love of writing fiction comes first and foremost.

My problem is that I have ideas. Many, many ideas. I have a whole cornucopia of ideas, just ready to be consumed. Well, what’s wrong with that, you may ask. The problem is it’s easier to come up with the ideas than to actually sit down and write them. I have folders with summaries of each idea, ready to be fleshed out further, but not the patience to actually sit down and write for hours on end. Every now and then if I’m thinking about one project in particular, I’ll go into the document and add my latest ideas. If I’m away from my computer, I’ll email the idea to myself as a reminder. It also doesn't help that ever since I received a Nintendo Switch 2 for my birthday, it has been an ongoing distraction. It's easier to turn on the power button and play than attempting to focus on writing anything.

Back when Amanda and I were living in North Hollywood, I would regularly wake up an hour before heading to the gym to go sit and write in the living room. Slowly but surely, mainly sleep deprived, I wrote the first draft of my first book The Patch. Once I had eventually finished with more than 325 pages, I felt triumphant. I hired a writer friend to edit it and give me feedback, and once I saw the pages upon pages of notes come back, I went from victorious to defeated. The notes I skimmed made sense, but the idea of having to sit back down and now edit those 325 pages took the wind out of my sails. It sits in its folder on my computer to this day, waiting for me to take another stab at it.

I want a reward for my hard work, and that’s part of the problem. I want recognition that I was a brave, good boy, who did a strenuous thing. I want applause for getting that far, and there should be no notes whatsoever, only praise! This of course is unrealistic, especially if one wants to be a professional writer. It’s draft after draft, editing until the final result makes the most sense. I’m used to this song and dance, as both a writer and editor at different points of my life. As an editor, you sometimes catch things that the writer may have missed, or that need suggestions or even guidance. My editor for all of my writings is my wife Amanda, and she knows my voice well enough to know what I need to hear or should focus more or less on. I might not always agree or take the note, but when she does call my attention to something that I overlooked or could zhuzh up a little, it does make a difference.

Writing has always come naturally to me. I originally was going to major in graphic design in college, but once an art history professor read the opening of my essay, a visit to the local art museum, and concluded with, “That’s how to write a hook!”, I too was hooked. And with my lack of success to draw perspective by hand, I felt that I might have better opportunities if I switched majors and went the creative writing route instead.

When I later attended Sonoma State, they had a English writing requirement that every student must complete before graduation to show essay writing comprehension. Out of a score of 10, you had to score a 7 or greater in order to pass and allowed to graduate. They had three different workshops they highly recommended you attend throughout your senior year in order to be best prepared for writing the essay in a packed auditorium surrounded by your fellow students. I ignored the recommended workshops, because in my opinion, if you’re an English major, you should have no problem acing any writing comprehension essay.

Towards the end of the school year, on a early Saturday morning, Amanda and I joined a hundred other students in a big lecture hall to write an essay on whatever topic we were presented with. There were a lot of nervous looking students in that lecture hall. They passed out the booklets and topic, and gave something like an hour and a half to complete and turn in. I wrote a paper, I can’t remember what the topic ended up being, turned it in, and left. My results came back a week later: I had scored an 8. I was perfectly okay with that.

Right now I’m writing a script for a feature-length film. I’m already thinking of what will need to change in the second draft, but currently it’s been a slight slog to get through it. When I officially completed the first season of Abroad last year, I felt ecstatic because that was several years in the making, and I definitely found my groove by the last few episodes and multiple drafts. 

While I shop those scripts around to various festivals, I’ll then shift my focus back to writing Evan Helsing full-time. I’m currently reading Anne Rice’s Queen of the Damned and getting a lot more inspired to tackle Evan again. I had a prologue and first chapter written, but my primary goal is to flesh-out each character and storyline with the major plot points, for this book and the next several. This is to be my Harry Potter, and want to make sure anyone who reads it will want to see where the next few books go. Although the better exercise would be to finally sit down and edit The Patch, but I’m too antsy to add one more obstacle in my path again, preventing myself from going full steam ahead into Evan.

So am I a writer? I play one online. I’m still too embarrassed to outright identify as such. It’s still a hobby at this point, until the day comes where I can make it a full time job, and sit and write for 8 hours a day knowing the payoff will be worth it. Then come the royalties, the advances, the media adaptations, etc, that will fund my future lifestyle of living abroad in Paris, writing from my chateau on the outskirts of the city.

Only then will I consider myself a writer, and not a moment before.