What makes a "real" writer?

A conversation on identity, imposter syndrome, and looking up the ladder of success.

Three weeks ago I went to a writing retreat in Devon, England. It was brilliant — a whole weekend to dive into storytelling, to learn about different methods of writing, and a chance to share my poetry with others in a real, physical way. Just the idea of me going to a writing retreat sounds bonkers and not something that I ever realistically thought I could attend — because writing retreats are for real writers, aren’t they?

What is a “real” writer? Is a real writer someone who has traditionally published a book or pieces in literary journals? Is a real writer someone who is paid to write? Or is a writer someone who simply puts their heart to words just as a painter is a painter if they put paint on a canvas. Surely a painter is not only a “painter” if they have sold a piece. Right? So why is it that us writers (real or imaginary) are so often self-conscious, so self-critical when it comes to declaring that we, well, WRITE.

For years, I’ve struggled to say it like it is and call myself a poet. Me, a poet? How embarrassing! How pretentious! But when I peel back the layers of my life, I realize I have been arranging words into lines to make sense of the world around me since I was a teenager. I have stacks and stacks of classic black and white composition notebooks, filled to the brim with reflections on love, heartbreak, girlhood, self discovery, grief, etc. So how then, could that not be poetry? How could I not be a poet?

What comes to mind in this reflection is Earnest Hemingway’s character in Midnight in Paris, talking to Gil Pender. Gil (the main character, and me in this scenario), shares with Hemingway that he’s been insecure of his work and has struggled to share it with other. Hemingway responds with, “Don’t be so self effacing — If you're a writer, declare yourself the best writer. But you're not, as long as I'm around.”

Midnight in Paris (2011)

This is the confidence I’m looking for right now. As an often insecure person (who’s embarrassed of even being insecure), I want to muster the courage to believe, once the thrill of a nice comment has worn off, that I am a good writer. In this space where rejections are plenty, and “likes” and social affirmations are often few, how do we keep going — believing our words deserve a place on the screen, or dare I say, the printed page? — If there’s by chance any supremely confident person who absolutely knows they rock at writing, please drop a comment below with your tips and tricks.

This week on social media I saw a video that said the most successful writers are not always the most skilled ones — but the ones who are the most tenacious. The ones who do not give up and continue to push through and push through until they find that crack in the ceiling. I had a realization that if I ever want to grow as a poet, and eventually publish a collection, then I need to do the damn thing and work for it. I need to be tenacious.

The traditional route of publishing in literary journals seems long, daunting, and a recipe for rejection. The other option, building an audience online with hopes of attracting an agent, also seems out of reach. When I look at my follower count, I feel like an ant staring at a skyscraper. With my big ole ant eyes, I can see a few other ants at the top, or at least climbing their way up, but for the life of me I don’t know how they got there.

Then I take a gut check and I realize the main reason I’m stuck is fear. So many poets who I admire also started from zero. They felt the same embarrassment, fear or failure, and probably still do — yet they continued to work on their craft and punch holes in their hearts for the rest of us to catch the pieces. Can’t I do the same?

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Despite all these feeling of insecurity and imposter syndrome, I’ve felt fire beneath my boots and have been working hard to prioritize my writing. I am writing a poem nearly day, or editing on the ones I feel less inspired. I’ve even submitted to some journals. My brain is constantly observing moments throughout the day and translating them into little praises in my mind. Even if everything doesn’t make it to the page, how wonderful is it to move through the world with such attention — affection — for the life around and inside me. It is a blessed thing to be a poet.

I’ve began sharing my work more here in my Substack notes and on IG (@gracewithherflowers). Hardly anyone is seeing it or “liking” it, and I often feel cringe and embarrassed. But I have a inkling that this will eventually fade, and am trying to remind myself that if the other ants can do it — so can I. I’m trying to muster the daily courage, the tenacity it takes to be successful, and just do the damn thing.

In doing so, I hope I can become a better writer, a better poet — to have my heart take over my hands and somehow, just maybe, touch the heart of someone else. Mary Oliver said:

"Every poet's ambition should be to write as well as Keats, Yeats, or Williams—or whoever it was who scribbled onto a page a few lines whose force the reader once felt and has never forgotten. Anything else is only a flirtation."

To follow this advice, I am reading more and more, examining what others are doing, experimenting with my own voice, and trying to pick up new habits and ways of approaching my work. I’m trying to write beyond when I feel inspired, and am religiously carrying around a notebook and a poetry collection everywhere I go. At night, I read poetry on my kindle (currently L. E. Bowman) and scribble lines that come to mind in the dark. Is this paying off? We’ll see — one surely can’t get worse the more they practice.

Who knows what will happen with my writing journey. I want to publish a book just as much as I want to have a daughter. I ache for it. Is that too much to admit? Are the odds against me? Despite the noise, somewhere in the swirling valves of my heart, I see myself braiding the hair of a daughter and I see myself holding a book with my name on it. Because I am a poet, damnit.

So now, I put give the mic to you — whoever might be reading this. How are you managing the weight of imposter syndrome? How are you “doing the damn thing” in your own writing? What are you dreams? What are your goals? How are you working towards them? I want to cheer you on.

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A SHORT NOTE 💌

In the spirit of “doing the damn thing,” here’s a poem I wrote this past week. I pointed to a few random words in Women Who Run with the Wolves and wove a thread through them. Whatever I wound up with feels very aligned with the fire I am feeling right now and the creative energy that is carrying me forward.

Gunpower

If your purpose on this earth is 
to create, you’ll know that
purpose is never quiet.

Even in the seasons when your hands
are lost at sea, drifting in the mundane corners
of our busy lives, the longing to make
is thunderous — sending a wave 
of unfulfillment, restlessness, a job 
undone, through your body. 

But when you lean into that purpose,
succumbing to that urge, those embers
waiting to ablaze again, you’ll emerge 
in summer when there’s not a project left untouched
and your soul is alive like a line of gunpowder —
sparkling, crackling with light

If your purpose on this earth is 
to create, and you follow it
your heart will never hear
a louder boom — one that echoes from deep 
within, saying “yes, yes, yes, this is why I’m here.”

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