A writer’s appetite thrives on observations, analysis of said observations, and recognition.
Recognition is neutrally charged, though it no doubt connotes positivity. I suppose “reaction” is the word that more accurately describes one of the three ingredients that make for my recipe of writer’s success.
When I refer to writer’s success, I am referring to the production of prose that is comprehensive, has a beginning and end, but does not necessarily have to be read, by someone other than myself that is.
Let’s backtrack: In order for writing to conjure a reaction, necessary for success, it must be read.
Positive recognition is always humbling, as is negative recognition.
As I have stated previously, I have taken to reading and while I have become fond of well-written fiction (according to what I perceive to be successful writing,) I still favor non-fiction above all else.
Journalism is for me - there is absolutely no doubt about that. For one, I get to write based on fact. I get to use analysis and not risk falling into a netherworld that is just short of the loony bin that I imagine fiction writers inevitably find themselves in.
As a journalist, I get to indulge in being that introvert who cannot be alone. I get to communicate with people, profoundly and soberly, for a short period of time.Interactions with my interviewees are altogether intimate, professional, and organic.
Most importantly, my socializing with my interviewees is scheduled. The interviews are short-lived, aside from their permanency in the resulting written prose. My relationships with my interviewees are drama-free and untethered. There are no strings attached; The best kind of socializing.
As a journalist I get to remain an intellectual, constantly reading and keeping up with the news.
I can retain an air of self-employment and unlike a physician who roams the wards of a hospital for hours on end, donning scrubs and white coat, I can remain a forever mobile writer.
I can set up shop at the nearest bookstore or cafe.
I can fully embrace my fashionable wardrobe. I can sport my new Swedish-brand platform lace-up rain-boots in a burgundy color referred to as ‘Cabernet’.
There is no greater validation for my chosen profession than what had happened to me on February 14, 2014.
My Valentine = Graduate School Acceptance from the Friendly People at my Top Choice.
All those months of studying vocabulary words, stringing together haphazard sentences of mind-numbingly boring prose in the reading comprehension section, and solving Level-4 Difficult math problems that I would never actually encounter for the GRE.
All that type typing away on a Microsoft Word document that ran over 30 pages, single-spaced, with severely anorexic margins, and a type-11 font size: A running list of vocabulary words that succeeds in making me fall in love with the English language all over again despite the fact that I did not know the definitions of more than half of the words prior to studying.
There was also a running list of geometric laws, algorithms, and algebraic formulas. I had to endure the wrath of using a qualitative keyboard to write out these mathematical equations.
Multiplication would be signified by the asterisk (*) and division by the forward slash (/).
Months of planning what schools I would apply to.
Months of copy-and-pasting application essay prompts that I would then break up and analyze in order to see what hidden request the admissions officers were actually making to the starry-eyed applicants.
Months of writing and editing everyday until I had essays upon essays that I birthed and waned. These very same essays that I had to reassess and recreate a couple of hours before their deadline at the request of my journalism college professor who has been mentoring me over email until now, despite seeing each other last in April 2012, the month before graduating from college.
I got into graduate school. I got into the graduate school of my choice. I’m going to get my master’s degree.
My name is going to read with the suffices B.A., M.S.
Having submitted graduate school applications, losing sleep over the eminent results, and resting up after having finishing up a life-consuming internship, I’ve taken it upon myself to stretch my abilities and write a story, a work of fiction - a manuscript in the making.
Without a job, unwilling to pursue an internship, and an academic at heart, I have decided to utilize my short-lived “free time” to pursue self-assigned work, a mini contribution to society, and successful writing - writing that is read by others.
It is my belief that any work of fiction has a thin foundation, fabricated from fact. After all, the author pulls from what he/she knows. Whether that knowledge is false or not does not matter so much. That is to say, whether or not someone believes the Earth revolves around the sun does not matter. The knowledge of such a concept, revolution by heavenly bodies, is enough.
I had a story in mind. I started typing furiously away and then I opened my email inbox to find the possibility of working outside the house again as a reporter. The interview is tomorrow.
I continued typing my story, to a less degree now that I had an interview prepare for.
A few days after checking my inbox, I checked my online application status for grad school and found out about my acceptance.
I haven’t continued to write my story since and would you like to know why?
I had decided to write a work of fiction when reality became so conflicted - deciding to wait out outside opportunities, mostly internships, until I found about graduate school, I had not slept for weeks and my appetite was curbed to such an extreme that I reduced to skin and bones.
Prior to finding out about my interview for a writing opportunity and then the possibility of acquiring a master’s degree, I had written my work of fiction up until the conflict in the story; up until the conflict in that phase of the protagonist’s life.
It seems that the recent good tidings in my life, the hope that the interview tomorrow presents (recognition in some form), and the admission to a selective program, has caused me to not want to confront the conflict of my narrative.
Now, however, is the conflict of being in the midst of writing a narrative not yet dissipated to the public.
I am going to finish this story and I am going to publish it - I’ve decided that much.
The question now is: Would you read my novella?