Who is this guy? And why is he writing a whole blog?

Both valid questions. To answer the first one, I’m nobody. I haven’t accomplished anything spectacular. My story is not inspirational, nor will it tug on your heartstrings, nor will it motivate you to chase your dreams and be your best self.

And to answer the second question: I’ve made this blog for purely selfish reasons. I find myself still irrelevant; still chasing some kind of pipe dream where I get to do public readings and speak at conferences in front of hundreds who will pretend to know what my book is about even though they haven’t read it (but some of them might buy it after being forced to hear me talk, assuming they haven’t ducked out early to try to be first in line for their flavorless hotel-catered lunch). I still want to do that.

I just haven’t had a chance to break through.

I don’t have anything exciting to write about. This isn’t a memoir that tells the tale of my struggles and my resilience and overcoming them despite facing impossible odds—no one is ever going to make a movie about my life.

But, as I dwell in my mid-thirties, in this ethereal space between my carefree twenties and my soul-crushing middle age, I have to at least try to get on someone’s radar; to take one last shot at fulfilling my childhood dream of being a published writer. And I’m sure my motives resonate with at least some of you.

My journey to mediocrity

I grew up as “the smart kid.” I always got the best grades; was always the teacher’s favorite; was always rated as a “pleasure to have in class” on every report card. And where I excelled the most was in writing.

As I grew older, I knew I wanted to be a writer. When I went to college, I got a degree in English and creative writing; I was going to be a poet. But I quickly learned two hard truths about being a poet: One, it doesn’t pay; and two, you have to be something special to make it as a poet.

Given my existence in this capitalist hellscape in which we live, I can’t do something full time that doesn’t pay. And I’m not really anything special. I’m ethnic, so I have that going for me, but—despite the occasional college scholarship or token seat in a boardroom—being ethnic doesn’t grant you much in America.

So I found myself with a degree in writing poetry and no way to turn it into a means of survival. I decided to use my surprisingly marketable skills in a series of white collar jobs, thinking writing could be a hobby—maybe I would get the occasional piece in a mid-tier literary magazine (just the online version; not the print version that’s reserved only for the good writers). But, as I stumbled my way into the field of communications—the refuge for a surprisingly large number of former creatives still looking to make a living—I found myself writing so much for work that writing was no longer fun.

I use this analogy a lot with my friends: If I were a chef, I wouldn’t come home from a sixteen-hour shift at my restaurant just to cook myself a gourmet meal with perfectly cubed pieces of filet on a swirl of green sauce and perfectly roasted asparagus. I spent all day doing that; I’m not gonna make it my pass time.

Writing has become the same for me. I do it so much for my job; why would I make it my passtime?

I’m your dad who won’t get rid of that old guitar

Back before I went into communications, I tried to make writing my passtime. I wrote a few bad novels. I did National Novel Writing Month (a challenge where you attempt to complete a 50,000-word manuscript in 30 days) for years. I wrote and edited and even hired a freelance editor at one point to help finalize one manuscript—a god-awful YA novel rooted in my own Rust Belt upbringing. I half-heartedly sent it to a handful of literary agents, each one rejected it as expected.

But life happens. Stuff gets in the way.

Pretty soon you find yourself in your mid-thirties, tired all the time and so sick of working that the idea of even opening a laptop outside of work hours equated to a low-grade form of torture. Pretty soon you find yourself reflecting on your previous dreams of grandeur and realizing you were stupid for even trying—after all, it’s a statistical improbability that anyone is going to make it big. Pretty soon you find yourself placating your creative urges with an online portrait drawing tutorial or occasionally plucking on the guitar your parents bought you when you were twelve because you were going to also be a rock star in addition to being a poet. 

And sometimes you’ll read books that you enjoy or go to a conference and see an author speak and it will make you think: can I still do it? You’ll think about how writing is probably your best bet at relevance in the eyes of society—after all, you don’t have to have any hand-eye coordination, a good singing voice, or any real artistic abilities at all.

Longings of a former smart kid

I think writing a book and getting it published is the dream of all former smart kids like me. It’s the ultimate form of relevance: someone out there thinks your insights on anything or your story or the world you have created is interesting enough to publish and charge $24.99 for a hardcover at the airport. It’s the adult equivalent of when the teacher picks you to share your project in front of the class because yours is clearly the best in a sea of meh. It’s the ultimate A+; the mark of a true smart person. After all, only smart people (and right-wing pundits) write books, right?

Except this isn’t an assignment; this is my attempt at being relevant in your eyes and the eyes of other people who care about books. While small, they are mighty—and by “mighty,” I mean “rich, privileged, and mostly white.”

So here I am. Mid-thirties, struggling to find a job I love; all but given up at any chance of relevance in the eyes of the literary community; willing to settle for some kind of relevance as your beach or before-bed read.

Anyone’s an expert on the internet

I thought for a long time about what to write. Novels are where it’s at, but I’m a firm believer in writing what you know, and I don’t know anything exciting or tragic enough to write 100,000 words about it. Poetry? Been there. I seriously considered writing about my experiences in the nonprofit and philanthropic sectors, a sort of “how to” run organizations better, as if I really know how to do that nor had any accolades in doing so. Nope, none of those would work. Besides, books—at least in terms of relevance in capitalism—require editors, publishers, marketers, etc. And I don’t have that kind of time.

But the internet is free.

This blog has to adequately contain my ravings in my last-ditch attempt at literary recognition. I guess you could call these ramblings “essays,” if you want to classify them as anything.

Read to make me relevant

So this is what I’m doing: writing a blog in hopes that someone will give this plucky mediocre writer a shot and I’ll get to speak at conferences and schmooze with the literary elites and gain some form of financial independence while still wearing my proverbial white collar.

Let’s hope the last time is the charm.