I am entering the final phase of my MFA program, with two classes this semester and a publishing internship next spring. My Intro to Publishing class has us writing blog entries this fall. In this first post, we are asked to consider what it means to be an “accomplished” writer.
In writing, I still equate “accomplished” with “published.” Although I’ve been published in a variety of online publications, I probably won’t feel “accomplished” until or unless I have a book sitting on my shelf, with my name on its spine. Until then, I’ll likely continue to feel like a fraud when I tell people I am a writer in response to the question, “What do you do?” Sometimes, I think I should just come out with it and admit, “I’m a fake writer,” before being asked the inevitable follow-up, “What do you write?”
Even as a child, I wanted to be a writer or, “author,” as I called it back then. I also wanted a canopy bed—one with a pink gingham canopy. While I did get a pink gingham bedspread, I didn’t get the canopy. I also wanted a Barbie Dream House, the kind that was three stories high and had a working elevator, which operated on a rudimentary pulley system. One Christmas, my parents gave me a plastic Barbie suitcase fashioned to look like a jetliner (I’m certain my mother found it on clearance). I played with the jetliner regularly but it would never match my Barbie Dream House fantasies.
I may always equate success as a writer with being published and, because I equate publishing with success, I may struggle to believe I am accomplished without a published book that says “Heidi Fettig Parton” on the spine. That elusive book is my adult-sized Barbie Dream House. Still, what I have learned in my MFA program is that a published book doesn’t make a life. The day after one’s book publishes, she still has to do the laundry (maybe Elizabeth Gilbert doesn’t), worry about book sales, and continue the search for her corner of happiness in the world.
Somedays, especially those days I receive a rejection letter, writing is really difficult. On those days, I ask myself if I really need a Barbie Dream House to feel complete. Perhaps there’s some writerly version of the plastic Barbie jetliner out there that I’ve yet to find. I have to wonder though; is good enough ever enough?
For my fellow Judy Blume fans, here’s an amazing song about the influence a writer can have (especially one writing for the young adult audience). It captures why I want to write books.