For over a decade, I’ve wanted to be a writer.
If you told me in 9th grade that one day I would not only enjoy reading and writing, but also pursue and complete a degree majoring in English, I would have wondered if you knew you were talking to the wrong person. Until I actually did enjoy reading, and then later writing, English was always the one class I couldn’t earn an A in without extra credit. The 89% and 88% I earned on my 9th grade transcripts were torture. Those grades would be considered really good for some students, but if you’re Asian — especially the child of first-generation Asian immigrants who never had the chance to receive a full, formal education themselves but know how important one can be in making sure their offspring didn’t end up working in the same kitchens and factories that they did — those grades were definitely not good enough. Far from it. B’s were blemishes. B’s stood for “behind the person who will take your spot as a success.” B’s warranted an interrogation.
“What happened?”
“Why did you get a B?”
“Do you need help? Surely you need an intervention and lots of help. What help do you need?”
Because I couldn’t break beyond B’s in my English class, I had a hate-hate relationship with writing. Writing reminded me of my own inadequacy.
But one day, in 11th grade, my AP English teacher assigned our class to write a personal narrative. “Next year, all of you will be applying to colleges,” he explained. “So we’re going to get a head start in preparing for that and start practicing now.” Growing up, I enjoyed drawing. It was my thing. I drew pages on top of pages of cartoon characters inspired by the visual styles of Calvin & Hobbes, Marvel Comics, Dragon Ball Z, Naruto, and more. But even more than drawing, I enjoyed imagining stories about what I drew. My daily stream of consciousness often flowed into fan fictions of those same story universes. So when I sat down to write my personal narrative assignment, I didn’t know everything that was going to happen, but I probably shouldn’t be surprised either.
I ended up writing a story set in high school about a teenage boy who, standing on the periphery of the popular kids’ circle at lunch, overhears that his crush will be at a party later that night. Learning this, he hits up his best friend to go with him. When they show up, he sees his crush, and his heart halts. The fabric of his fantasies is just one hallway length away from him, and suddenly he realizes the compass in his pocket doesn’t come with courage. He stalls by trying to search for some at the bottom of a cup — or rather cups. And although it takes a few tries, he eventually finds himself putting one foot in front of the other until suddenly he’s standing right beside her, tapping on her shoulder.
She spins around, smiles when she sees him, and the rest feels like riding a bike downhill. One lucky line after another and next thing he knows they’re in an upstairs bedroom together, her lips pressed against his, pushing him closer and closer towards the bed until the back of his knees meets its edge and he falls backward. She climbs on top of him and the excitement continues to unfold with each layer of clothing peeled off piece by piece until it seems as if his wet dream come true is about to reach its climax.
Unfortunately, his borrowed courage came with consequences. They both wait on him as the silence stretches from seconds to minutes, and then the minutes start feeling like hours. It’s when she says, “don’t worry, it’s okay,” that he realizes it’s totally not. It’s when she says “it happens” that he realizes it’s not happening. As she starts getting dressed, he hurries to reach for his own clothes.
She stands up and tells him she’s going to return to the party first, then walks out the door and shuts it. He sits alone in the room, stunned and in silence. After piecing himself back together, he makes his way back downstairs and sees her talking to some other guy. He heads straight home. Maybe it was okay though. Two weeks later, rumors start spreading about how that other guy ends up finding out that he has an STD.
I submitted that as a school assignment. I don’t remember my teacher ever trying to talk to me about it (maybe to save us both the mutual awkwardness), but what I do remember is printing out a copy to show my friends. Watching all of them circle up and huddle around the person holding the pages, seeing smiles stretch across their faces, listening to their giggles loosen into loud laughter — that got me hooked on what writing could do.
Ever since then, I’ve always tried to write so I could consider myself a writer in one way or another.
In 12th grade, I took a creative writing class. That same year, I posted some pieces from that class and also others as Facebook Notes. Also that same year, I bought three books on writing. When it came time to write my college application essays, I wrote about writing and how, compared to visual handwriting, drawing, and tennis, it was the one pursuit in which I didn’t aspire to mimic someone else. Instead, I desired to develop my own unique style. I also decided to major in English because I believed studying great works of literature would be a way for me to improve my own craft.
I continued writing in college, submitted to some creative writing competitions, got rejected by all. I was disappointed, but not devastated. I later enrolled in a creative writing class over the summer and I even asked my professor to sponsor an Independent Study where I wrote a handful of stories. I was even admitted into two creative writing workshops senior year led by two distinguished authors. A couple of decent pieces with potential emerged through all those tries, but nothing I continued to push until it got published somewhere.
After graduating, I worked as a Marketing Coordinator primarily responsible for organizing trade shows, which had nothing to do with writing. But whenever one of my managers asked me to help edit an article, I embraced each assignment like it was a gift. I later moved to Asia and worked in a position that involved more writing but never involved publishing any of my own.
I’ve continued to write letters to friends back home, attempted a project inspired by a break-up, joined a writing group when I was in Shanghai, and was invited to opportunities by friends that would have allowed me to publish something — anything — but still, I never published. Every podcast episode that hosted a writer as a guest, I listened in closely, as if at any second I would hear what I needed to to finally start really writing (publishing), and I didn’t want to miss it. I’ve taken online courses by people who have not just made a modest living through writing online, but significant ones, people whose personal stories prove that you don’t need to be chosen by gatekeepers at traditional book publishers or editors of publications to publish something, write, or make a living.
And yet, despite how simple and accessible publishing has been made — literally anybody can do it now — I folded whenever I had the chance to show my cards. My fear was debilitating. I feared being laughed at by friends, by my family, by peers and colleagues whom I respected. More than being laughed at, I feared losing their respect. Of all the risks I have taken betting on myself, the one I couldn’t take was bringing myself to publish. It always felt like I would be going all in, and I was so sure that the instant I published I would lose it all.
This fear is so deceitful in its intent to derail me that it recently had me telling myself, “Maybe I don’t really want to be a writer.” Maybe I was meant to do something else and this was just some childish aspiration that should now be put to rest. That way, I could move on to something else.
I’ve also tried lying to myself and saying, “You can just write for fun. Writing, even if you never publish, still has many benefits. You can just keep writing in private and work on something so big and important that it can’t be published right away because it needs more time. Then, one day, when it’s all ready, you can finally publish.”
But no. “One day” is not a day in the week, and tomorrow doesn’t exist until it becomes today.
I don’t need more advice. I don’t need more time. I don’t need more books, or more advice, or to take another course.
I just need to give myself permission to start, even if it’s bad. So here’s a final piece of advice to myself and anyone else who’s still held hostage by their own fear of publishing, by the fear of being seen.
Start with bad.
Start with imperfect.
Start with not ready.
Start with not knowing if it will work or be any good.
Start with making things that are not as good as you would have liked, but, most importantly, just start.
Start so that you can finally get going and see yourself go.
Start so that because you finally started, you can also move on and do better, or keep going until you do.
Start because even if it’s arrogant or pompous to think that something you made might end up being what someone else needed to help them get through a really tough time in their life, it could also end up being true.
Eventually, you’ll figure out how to get from where you are to where you want to be. But remember, the catch is you can’t figure it out unless you start.
I don’t know where it will all go or end up, but I know I need to start.
So start.
Publish.
