Never Give Up on Your Stupid Fucking Dreams
I currently have two goals in life, beyond the “be a good person who shows kindness whenever possible” thing, which shouldn’t be a “goal” so much as something innate to us (and yet, somehow isn’t for a lot of people, go figure). Those goals are to continue growing my writing career, and to eventually write a slightly tongue-in-cheek motivational book called Never Give Up On Your Stupid Fucking Dreams.
If that’s a rather harsh title for something that’s supposed to inspire people to keep plugging along at being a writer, or an artist, or whatever, well, it’s true. Most of our dreams are pretty dumb, and many of them are largely unattainable. Rather than give up, however, better we should modify them, make them more realistic without assuming that they’re simply not feasible. I’ve wanted to be a writer for about as long as I can remember. It occurred to me fairly early on in my life that writing was one of the only things I was actually pretty good at, which is a blessing, really, because a lot of adults go their whole lives not really knowing what they’re good at, let alone working to get better at it. You might be surprised at what you have a skill for, if you spent the time used telling yourself that it’s pointless on actually developing it instead. Can you become a professional actor? Chances are, probably not. Can you become a member of your local community theater? Sure, why the hell not? But you have to put in the same dedication to your work there as you would if you were cast in Chicago. A lot of success is luck and timing, true. But a lot of it is work, too, and though it might not work out exactly the way you wanted it to, that it worked out at all is something of a miracle.
When I was younger, I had a very specific idea of what “success” as a writer looked like. It looked like writing for some super-cool (at the time) outlet like Rolling Stone or Vanity Fair, until someone offered me a three-book publishing contract. I’d live in New York, in a loft apartment with an elevator that opened up right into it. I’d somehow write both fiction and non-fiction, and be at the top of the New York TImes bestseller list in each category. I’d never have to worry about getting a “real” job, and I’d never have to worry about money.
Well, I live in New York. I can say that. I have a New York zip code. But I’ve never even been inside a loft apartment, let alone lived in one. I live in a nice but un-hip neighborhood in Brooklyn, miles away from Williamsburg and Bushwick, or whatever part of the borough happens to be trendy at the moment. I have a day job. I’ve only very recently begun getting paid for some of my writing, and it goes right back into books to improve my writing ability. I’m not making a living off of this. I don’t think that I ever will, but I’m okay with that. I’ve written a novel, but there’s a very good chance I’ll end up self-publishing it. I’m okay with that too. Most of the time, at least.
If this sounds like I’m telling you to lower your expectations, well, I am. Success for me as a writer used to mean hovering under everyone’s radars, never risking rejection, until someone magically discovered me, like Lana Turner at Schwab’s Pharmacy. Fuck self-promotion, my work should speak for itself! Well, I suppose in theory that’s true, but it turned out that after more than 20 years of simply waiting for a light to be shined on me without having to get anyone’s attention first, I got nowhere. Models get discovered, writers do not. You at the very least have to show one other person what you do, and prepare yourself for the possibility that they might not like it, that they might have suggestions on how to make it better, or might even just tell you that you’re not cut out for it. So you go back, and you fix it, and you show someone else. And then another. And another. And then you realize one day you have an audience. It may not be the size you imagined, but having even more than one person interested in what you have to say is, again, kind of a miracle.
Largely because it occurred to me that I was not getting any younger, and that I needed to get my shit together unless I wanted to be known as the Grandma Moses of writing, this year I bought a domain and started posting my writing. It was not at all the first time I had done such a thing, but it was the first time I devoted actual money and real time to making a good “product.” That’s a gross word to apply to your art, your passion, “product.” But that’s what it is — you’re selling something to people, and for me it’s my thoughts on movies, or old television, or what it’s like to have a mental illness. You create a good product, and you sell it well, people will want more of it. I wrote a novel, and stalled out on querying it because I don’t know how to get the synopsis for it just right. It’s part of the “selling” process, and no one’s work is good enough to just wave off all that. It’s a package. It’s a product. I’m okay with that. A goal I have this coming year is to work to perfect that synopsis, and if it doesn’t work, I’ll do it again, and again, until I get it right. It’s part of taking it seriously.
A shocking twist on taking myself seriously as a writer, and being consistent in quality and promotion, is that it made people sit up and take notice. If I hadn’t sent out my manuscript to beta readers, I very likely would not have been asked to participate in a short story anthology, one of my greatest accomplishments of this year. If I wasn’t posting my occasionally clumsy but thoughtful and well-meaning attempts at film writing, I would not have been asked to write for Alcohollywood, another accomplishment that gives me a great deal of pride, and regret that I didn’t give myself a chance to be seen ten or even twenty years ago. Maybe I would be in that loft apartment by now. But probably not, those things cost millions of dollars today, and what writer is earning that unless your last name is Rowling or King?
I modified my dream. My dream is to have something that I love doing, that entertains people, that relieves the sturm und drang of everyday life. Is it a waste of time? I’m sure to some people’s perceptions it is is — again, I make almost no money doing this. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not always convinced that this is a worthwhile exercise: Twitter is real good at being that dash of cold water to the face that keeps you from feeling yourself too much. There’s a whole lot of people who are doing what you want to do, achieving those dreams that maybe you once had but realized aren’t feasible, and sometimes the rat-fucks aren’t even as good at it as you are.
But, there’s more people like me, just plugging away, making time to do what we love, because what else are we going to do? Give up? What would I have then? I need my day job, true, but I’ll be damned if it’s all I have, if it’s the primary thing that gives my life meaning and purpose. It pays my bills, that’s it. Not giving up is my dream. It wasn’t what I used to dream, but modifying a dream to be more realistic isn’t a failure. It’s just a different kind of dream.
Although, honestly, an apartment with an elevator that opens up right into the living room would be pretty great.
