Except, I know what I don't want. I don't want my life to become a constant repetition of high school awards night. I didn't like that bullshit in high school; I haven't grown any fonder of self-congratulatory, utterly superfluous bullshit as I've gotten older. There used to be epic screaming matches in my house over it all. I only collected the plaques and certificates of my "superior achievements" because my parents like to have them. I'd rather the paper be used for something useful.
Here's what I'm certain of: I love to teach. I have a real talent for caring about "difficult elements" of society, maybe because that's how so many people see me. I'm incredibly good at connecting with those kids that people have incredibly low expectations for and making them believe that it's worth exceeding those expectations for their own sakes. I love it. It's emotionally rewarding and spiritually fulfilling. That's just truth. My truth. My own truth, and if that was all I was ever good at, that would be more than enough for me.
Because here's another thing I'm quite certain of: I don't want to be a part of "Publishing." High school awards night for the rest of my life? No thanks. I don't want to sit there wondering what part of me they're going to think is worth rewarding, who was better in history, who nailed mathematics, who excelled in chemistry, and who I trumped in English. Frankly, I don't care if people think I'm smart or talented or even know my name. That's not why I'm here and it's never been why I write. (If I feel like it, maybe I'll get into that another time.) I don't need the politics, the self-aggrandizement, back-slapping, the pretense, the parties, the publicity -- I don't want it. You can keep it. Maybe I'm over-thinking it, but the more I consider what is involved in the writing industry, the more absurd it seems, the less pure, the less noble, the less honest it becomes every second that I think about what a future as a writer looks like.
That's just not who I am. When I say there were epic fights over whether or not I went to awards night, I don't mean just screaming matches. Oh, I was vicious in my refusal to acknowledge them as legitimate. Because they're NOT legitimate. If you're doing it for those reasons, to be better than someone else or to be recognized for it, then you're not doing it for the right reasons. And that goes for everything in this world. If you're not doing it for your own fulfillment or the betterment of this world, then what the hell are you doing? That is emptiness, needing the recognition, needing the high-powered jobs, the high-profile book deals, the plugged-in and impressive connections. Who I know and who I've worked with? What the hell does that matter if the work doesn't matter? name-dropping and award-shopping won't make you a writer. It just makes your work less legitimate.
Listen: if I am going to become a writer, I'm damn well going to do it on my own terms. Everyone and their mothers get book deals these days. If the "Stuff White People Like" boys can get a book deal, if lauren Conrad and Paris Hilton and Madonna and every other celebrity on this planet can get book deals, there's no pride in that. There's no value in a book deal, no worth in pursuing it for the glory. And I mean that literally: the only worth that can be found in a book deal is found in the cash advance.
Van Gogh didn't get shit while he was alive. He sold one painting while alive. So what? Monet got all the glory and let's be honest, he's painfully dull and commercialized. I would rather have Van Gogh's career than Monet's. I'd rather be proud of the passion I put into my work than the accolades it acquires. I'd rather pursue my artistic truth than someone else's standards of good or bad.
The work has to speak for itself. The editor doesn't matter; the author doesn't matter. You know it in your heart, if you look honestly at your heart. The work is more important than the recognition. After all, I am a miracle not because I am a success but merely because I exist, correct? And I am a miracle and success because I exist, because I simply am. Not because I meet some arbitrary standards our society has laid out for what a successful person looks like.
Here's the thing. I'd rather have my convictions than my friends. I can always make more friends; hell, I can always write more friends. And if I've ever been a part of this world at all, it's only ever been in service of something greater than myself. The children I have tried to help, the stories I have tried to find. If I could lock myself away in a shed in the woods, I would. All the publishing industry does is serve people; it barely serves the work. Publishing houses, everything that goes along with writing books, the tv appearances and the public readings, those aren't for the good of the work; those are for the benefit of the writer. Those don't enrich your writing; they enrich your bank account.
I don't give a shit what my bank account looks like so long as it's not in the red and I could keep it in the black working as a waitress. If I was empty enough to think that a bulging wallet could save my soul, that having stuff could fix what was wrong in my heart, or to think that dressing well made me any kind of worth knowing, hell, I'd pack it in and go into finances. (Yes, I do hate Wall Street. No, I won't apologize. Because what good has Wall Street ever done for someone who wasn't already in a position of power? What good has Wall Street ever done for anyone? And if you're not doing good, then what the fuck are you doing with your life? Wasting it on imaginary money and constructed values. That's not really an issue I consider up for debate, but if you don't like it, aw, poor you. Change your life. Save yourself.)
So don't tell me that it's good for me to get awards and praise; what's good for me is to work. To continue to work and to continue to grow. Not to hear that I am wonderful, but to hear that I can become even better than I already am.
That being said, here's an out-of-context passage from one of my Div III stories. This particular passage might be the very best thing I've ever fucking written.
“He’s away,” she said and did not look at him. “He is in the war.”
Some part of Billy’s chest caved in and broke away, drifting through his veins so that he felt through his entire body the brutality of his circumstances, slowly but like a spreading warmth. A hand lifted itself toward his chest as if to feel for blood or an open wound but there was nothing to touch, nothing to bandage. Whatever it was that was bleeding was inside of him and could not be seen.
“The war,” he choked when he could manage it, “is over.”
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