When I first entered the world of writing, my sophomore year of college, I was surprised to find that it hadn’t escaped the cold realities of capitalism.
A young, wanna-be writer, who had been writing for years already, eagerly set up a meeting with a community writer at a local coffeeshop.
I had always written, but this time I was serious, I was going to become a writer regardless of what anyone said…
Still, I wanted to know I had what it took. So hearing of this local writer, a hero to me for being called “writer” at all, I decided I would get his stamp of approval.
~~~
Meet me at 7!
His text was clear. And despite being young, pulling another all nighter for college classes, I walked through the door, dawn’s light barely peeking through.
I found him in a shaw cardigan, looking surprised.
I didn’t think you’d show?
He took out his pen and scrawled through a story I sent him, making many marks.
I am sorry to say, I didn’t like your story at all.
There was no plot and it really didn’t make sense in the end.
I had heard the writing world was rough, but continued finding the same response, again and again.
Another community writer, with years of Hollywood experience, gave me a Matrix metaphor, saying he would compliment my story (the blue pill) and I could go on pretending I was a writer. Or he could give me the real feedback (the red pill).
I wanted the truth, and he told me the prose was stilted, and I wasn’t “saying what I meant.”
Do it, again, probably a hundred more times. Then you will be good.
Another teacher told me I was settling if I wasn’t sending my work to The New Yorker, and I obviously had a lot to learn. Plenty to read. Degrees to get. Time to volunteer.
~~~
And finally, one of the most abusive teachers I had, an MFA professor with 50+ years of experience told us on the first day:
You need to work over 100 hours on every poem you turn into to me!
Many workshop sessions went by, and I was always praised for hard work, so long as the writing was good.
This is so bad, you couldn’t have spent enough time on it.
Usually, the professor would proceed with lines of criticism. Thorough, but blunt.
Why would you do this as a child? That seems stupid.
How does this make sense? I was poor, and this wasn’t my experience.
Or, my favorite…
You know, its obvious in workshop that you give useless feedback, feedback that shows you haven’t spent any time at all on them…
~~~
While I appreciated these writer’s varying degrees of care and attention, pushing me to try my very best, be my very best, and put my very best work out there, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong with the picture.
Work.
We were all being measured by how much or how little we worked.
Certain poets, social media poets included, weren’t real poets or writers because they didn’t put in THE work.
However, even when I did put in the work, sometimes it was obvious it wasn’t THE RIGHT work, which led to spiraling bouts of more intense work binges and crashing waves of fatigue.
I know this work made my work better in the end, probably, but these crazy bouts of work led to little reward.
And as one dear friend often reminded me:
If you put 100 hours of work into one poem, you aren’t going to get those 100 hours back, no matter what award you win.
~~~
So years after the degrees and awards, however small or large, I still wonder if I have done enough work.
The right work.
Lately, with job burnout in another creative field, it has become my work to uncouple the need for incessant work and measuring metrics from the art of writing.
However, I am sure the same is true in other arts. As my times in kitchens have taught me that you need to pay your dues and put in THE work if you want to get anywhere in terms of respect.
Sadly, as the latest season of The Bear demonstrates, this intensity often leads to a crash which drives people away from their art or profession every year.
It almost drove me away, too.
~~~
For me personally, I have tried to use my art as a facade.
If I worked hard, maybe I could distract everyone from my anxiety issues or my crippling self doubt, which came from my years as an adult child.
This led to excess in work, in every field.
It also led to excess in shopping.
Excess in eating. Etc.
I wanted so badly to be consumed by this writing world because I wanted to be anything but who I was.
What has become clear, however, is that there is no way to untether my traumas from me.
They happened.
And if I don’t do THE REAL work of processing and healing, then all other areas of my life will suffer.
I must prioritize this real work, this healing.
I must rest.
~~~
As a trans and neurodivergent person, this rest is even more important in our current politics.
If I don’t take a minute to reset my nervous system, if I don’t take a walk or drink my water or do my meditation, if I just try to keep pushing through—
My crashes are bound and determined to be even harder.
My identity, like your identity, is likely various and complex and each of these factors does play a role.
It makes no sense to pretend they don’t because you are the only the that can get hurt in the end.
~~~
As a trans, neurodivergent artist trying to live a creatively full life in difficult times to be alive or be trans or be creative or be neurodivergent, I get exhausted sometimes before I get out of bed.
Couple this with addiction issues, and you might see how it is hard to be consistent at anything, especially something I find so important, like my writing to you, dear friends ( I am sorry to my audience, as I know you have struggled with me).
For a long time, I have wondered what “my purpose” or “my calling” was. I have sought and sought. I have taken career quizzes and asked spiritual teachers.
And at 30, I can honestly say, I still don’t know.
However, what has become clear to me in the last year a half, as I have tried to “pay my dues,” is that maybe my REAL WORK is rest.
To rest through the hard and good days.
To rest through the processing of trauma.
To rest through the celebration of a publication or another subscriber.
To rest through the rejection or another unfollow.
To rest through my recovery work.
To rest through my slips.
To rest through losing jobs and getting jobs.
To rest in my transness.
To rest in my writing and let my writing rest in me.
To creatively and wholeheartedly to pursue rest, instead of work.
~~~
If grinding and working hard can make you stand out, then think about what radical rest can do?
Sometimes this rest might require a lot of work.
Sometimes this rest is uncomfortable.
Sometimes this rest is aggravating.
But it always brings you back to your divine creator, to your community—
To yourself.
XOXOX
Jo
Beautifully written and expressed, Jo. It's impressive to hear how you're figuring these things out.
I had a little lightbulb moment reading this piece, realising that your thoughts are similar to my views on productivity. Where societal norms of lauding productivity and efficiency have devalued care (for ourselves and giving care to others), people tend to equate quantity over quality and devalue caring. We internalise these things as standards. Apologies if I'm misinterpreting or over extrapolating here! Just a personal view I wanted to share. Thoughts?
Another personal opinion (as an ex corporate manager/leader, with a small mentoring business), I've seen genius talent and thoughts emerge in seconds from some people, whether it's natural talent or talent borne of experience. I've also seen some people critique/ dismiss others simply because they're envious, feel threatened by that talent, or want to promote an unequal power dynamic—a sad symptom of a hyper-individualistic, competitive society. Unfortunately, I often see this with poor managers who lack appropriate management training.
All to say - YES, please rest, take good care of yourself and nurture your talent. xo