Still from Kurosawa’s Madadayo (1993).
I haven’t written something here for a while, at least not something personal. Lately, however, I find myself reflecting on the writing of Charlotte Shane, the painful process of birthing a book and wondering what success means. Do I believe in such aspirations? In many circles, careerism is a nasty accusation. I hate the word prolific. It feels like an insult. As in, you write too much. It can’t possibly all be good. I write because I must. Because I want to. Because, yes, I need a paycheck. Because writing is what I need to do in order to figure out what I think, to wrestle with subjects beyond my understanding. I like to write about subjects that are foreign to me, to force myself out of my comfort zone—to conduct interviews or write profiles, to review nonfiction books about specialized subjects, to wade through competing accounts and archives.
A while back a friend of mine came in from out of town. We ambled around The Strand and talked about the business of writing. For many years, it was something I could avoid. I didn’t have to think about it since no one was paying me. Having scruples was easier. There was nothing to turn down or deny. Little can be taken away when little is offered. Anyway, my friend told me I was ambitious, just like them. “It’s not a bad thing,” they added.
I am a striver. A workhorse. I try not to let the sweat show too much but also, sometimes, in order to convince people I should get work, I let people know that I too have bills to pay. I lost my full-time job last December. Since then I’ve been dancing from gig to gig. I’m lucky and privileged that there are gigs still out there for me. Of course, the kinds of gigs I get are not always the glossy beautiful magazines—but neither are they unsophisticated or unimportant either. It would be disingenuous to say I have not—to some extent—“made it.” Now, sometimes people ask for my advice on having a writing career. I used to be the one doing the asking. I’m still trying to convince myself I do not have to take every gig or act out of a scarcity mindset. I try not to write about certain subjects that I don’t want to anymore because I can afford not to. I can attempt to avoid embarrassment. But of course, we all need money, and sometimes I do take the gig. New York is not cheap. I hope people read my book. I hope they order it and write about it. I hope it is read not just as a work about identity, but a novel in the tradition of Ursula K Le Guin. I hope people consider it as a Gothic, as a work of literature—not a manual of how to be.
While I have some security now, I also harbor some jealousy. There are writers whose career I would kill to have. (“But [I’m] not as good as Walter Benjamin?” Susan Sontag once complained to a reader.) But there are others who don’t get asked to only write about identity politics or who get more longitude or who write for the “right” magazines. (I’d love to write about books, not just the existential threat to minorities.) When does a writer feel satisfied? When does a writer feel it is enough? Hopefully never. Once sated, it is easy to be complacent. Work for it. That said, it’s exhausting to think this way—to operate out of a scarcity to mindset. When will I assume the next step is assured? Perhaps never. Even now, having crossed off many life-long goals, I add more. I told myself I would be happy when… or when I accomplished… or after I published in… or once I had a book out… but then, of course, one novel turns to two. Longevity becomes the new goal. Sophomore slump awaits, its claws clutching my shoulders.
How have I been? Busy. I’m giving myself less time to hunch down in despair. It works. Sometimes. Of course, one can’t work 24/7. Bodies don’t enjoy such a heavy load and brains get leaky. So, eventually, the crash comes. Workaholism has been my coping mechanism for a long time. I have not figured out an alternative. I am no longer a party girl. Just occasionally when the opportunity comes along. Things have been stressful in ways both big and small. I am in limbo, waiting for the book to be born. Trying to learn what riding the in-between phases of writing and life are like. Highs and lows coming and going, night rising and falling. One must go through the gate bowing to life’s immensity. The gods of the sky wait for you to submit to the tempo of the mundane. The interim can be either numbing or magical. Recently fireflies have started coming out at night as I walk home after drinking a Negroni or two. Perhaps that is enchanting enough.
In Japan, the only sound that followed us everywhere was the buzzing of cicadas.
Trans Health Care for The New Yorker.
Nancy Mace for The New Republic.
love youuuuu
These articles for the New Yorker lately, though. Those have been really good. You wrote them well, and I am glad you were available to write them. I am glad that somehow the New Yorker declared its colors on this issue. That is very important, and it will be something you can always be proud of. Excited for your book, I will preorder now!