Thursday, February 22, 2007
ho-hum
I'm writing fiction again. Hooray. I can already hear the exultations from the citizens of my mind.
It's hard going, though. It was so much easier before I went to grad school. In Manila, the writing world was so small that failure never seemed permanent. There's like a funny layer of mutual admiration there there that really insulates you from the reality of multiple rejection slips. Back then, I operated under the impression that hard work and (a little bit of) talent was enough.
How wrong I was.
In New York, it almost seems like everyone's a writer. Everyone's a member of some writing group. Everyone's crossed cities/countries/continents to grab a bit of a dream. Everyone's got a story of how they've huddled up with a tattered duvet in a low-rent apartment with the heat off in winter, burning the proverbial midnight oil to finish their various masterpieces while they worked a string of midnight jobs on the side, waiting for their big break into the literary world. Everyone's made some kind of heartbreaking sacrifice. And everyone's willing to do whatever else it takes.
When I was an editorial assistant for one of those artsy small presses in Brooklyn, I sometimes scanned through manuscript submissions in the throw pile. And really, some of them were damn good. The amount of quality writing constantly pouring in from all over the world was just amazing. The talent that was pounding on the door was, well, sobering to say the least. Yeah, I learned how to become a better writer in New York, but I also had to come face to face with the "competition", and that encounter has left me, let's face it, incredibly insecure.
Nowadays, when I write, I can't help feeling the pressure from genius (and already published) classmates, some of whom have been awarded $40,000 grants and $100,000 advances. I can't stop myself from hearing the voices of award-winning authors (aka NYU professors) berating me in my head. And it's hell, I tell you. Writing is already hard enough as it is. I don't need an imaginary audience second guessing my every word.
And yet, here I am, once again submitting myself to torture. Heh. I'm hopeless, aren't I?
It's hard going, though. It was so much easier before I went to grad school. In Manila, the writing world was so small that failure never seemed permanent. There's like a funny layer of mutual admiration there there that really insulates you from the reality of multiple rejection slips. Back then, I operated under the impression that hard work and (a little bit of) talent was enough.
How wrong I was.
In New York, it almost seems like everyone's a writer. Everyone's a member of some writing group. Everyone's crossed cities/countries/continents to grab a bit of a dream. Everyone's got a story of how they've huddled up with a tattered duvet in a low-rent apartment with the heat off in winter, burning the proverbial midnight oil to finish their various masterpieces while they worked a string of midnight jobs on the side, waiting for their big break into the literary world. Everyone's made some kind of heartbreaking sacrifice. And everyone's willing to do whatever else it takes.
When I was an editorial assistant for one of those artsy small presses in Brooklyn, I sometimes scanned through manuscript submissions in the throw pile. And really, some of them were damn good. The amount of quality writing constantly pouring in from all over the world was just amazing. The talent that was pounding on the door was, well, sobering to say the least. Yeah, I learned how to become a better writer in New York, but I also had to come face to face with the "competition", and that encounter has left me, let's face it, incredibly insecure.
Nowadays, when I write, I can't help feeling the pressure from genius (and already published) classmates, some of whom have been awarded $40,000 grants and $100,000 advances. I can't stop myself from hearing the voices of award-winning authors (aka NYU professors) berating me in my head. And it's hell, I tell you. Writing is already hard enough as it is. I don't need an imaginary audience second guessing my every word.
And yet, here I am, once again submitting myself to torture. Heh. I'm hopeless, aren't I?
12:20:00 PM
