Fraudin’ it up in Paradise
A friend and I were slugging back gulps of Maker’s Mark from the bottle one night last week during Squaw Valley’s unbelievably fun and helpful summer writer’s conference. I told her I considered myself not so much a writer, but a fraud. She absolutely agreed with me – that she felt like a fraud as well. The amount of alcohol we drank that night prevents me from remembering subsequent details of our conversation, but I wondered if anyone else felt the same way the following afternoon and I asked around. Everyone I asked said yes, their eyes widened, they nodded emphatically, and seemed as though they’d spent extended periods of time thinking the matter over. By fraud, I don’t mean fabricating memoirs, or taking credit for other peoples’ stories, or anything like that, but for a long time, I’ve had this overwhelming guilt for being a writer. Hell, I didn’t even refer to myself as a writer until sometime last year. I’d call myself “a guy who writes,” or even say, “I write,” but calling myself a writer, the actual word, smelt of a lie. (Also, I’m sure we’ve come into contact with folks in college workshops, for example, who say things like, “As a WRITER, I feel that…”, followed by a litany of self-indulgent details about their life, which have little or nothing to do with whoever’s piece is being workshopped, so perhaps there’s some preference for dissociation in certain circumstances, but I digress.)
So what’s up with this guilt? Whenever someone reads one of my essays/stories, either for workshop or general thoughts, and they give me positive feedback, I worry that I’ve somehow tricked them into liking the piece through some thorough scheme, that I’m actually a piece of shit, who hasn’t played fair, or whose motivations are selfish, and the compliments I receive are born of pity. Perhaps it’s because those of us who’ve taken college/graduate-level creative writing classes have been indoctrinated to take in positive feedback and listen to it, but ultimately ignore it and thrive for criticism and all its sagacity, that we’re supposed to go home and think long and hard about our critiques and scream into our pillows and suffer sweaty, sleepless nights before we can produce anything worthwhile, and even then we’re still pieces of shit, because we’re not working on our next pieces hard enough. The problem is, shunning compliments and longing for constructive criticism isn’t how we think, in most cases. When people say, “Oh, I hate getting compliments in workshop because they’re not helpful,” all I think is, shut the fuck up. Everybody wants to be adored, and our words are our bare breasts, our pasty upper thighs. Everybody wants positive feedback, but we’re trained to be tough and modest. The problem is, so much feedback is bullshit, anyway, positive and negative. It’s as though we’re forced to be dishonest.
During the workshops in which I’ve participated over the years, we’re expected to give positive and ‘constructive’ feedback, all of us, all around the room. For the reader/critic, this means having to lie, because sometimes there are few good things to say about the work, or the work is essentially complete. I’ve read some horrid pieces in workshop before, from which I could practically see the swirling stink lines. Thing is, though, we have to find the good stuff in each read, as well as what needs refining, which, in some cases, is every word. I’ve underlined and checked piss-poor sentences, only because they were better than the rest. On the flipside, though, when reading practically flawless manuscripts, I’ve often tricked myself into finding fault in a sentence or an idea, because we have to find flaws. I’ll wind up being a stupid bullshitter, who doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I unfortunately don’t have any solutions to the workshop model because, as a WRITER, I have a tendency to complain and be lazy. Maybe that’s where the guilt lies. Writing can change lives, sure, but people are reading less and less these days, and I feel as though we have to alter our prose to meet the audience, which can be rather irritating and exhausting. Obviously arguments can be made against this claim, but I skipped last week and need to hurry up and post this.
Or maybe it’s that writers are in this bizarre arena of solidarity and competition. We have to stick up for one another, yet fight for recognition. We know what good writing is, but we also know that there’s a 97% chance that we’re not going to make a lavish living on our writing alone, unless we sell out and suck off Tom Clancy, or come into extreme luck. I’ve said it before, but I don’t particularly enjoy writing – it’s what I have to do, though, and whether or not it’s fraudulent, it’s a duty. Just as Glen David Gold sang during Squaw’s opening talk, to the tune of Auld Lang Syne: “We write, because we write, because we write, because we write.”
I don’t want to move away from the interesting questions you pose about the writer-fraud syndrome, but I wonder how often people feel this fraudulent sensation in other fields.
I also feel like an imposter when I get a teaching assignment. I always say yes when I’m offered a chance to teach a new course, but I never have the expertise I think I should in order to teach it. I felt like a fraud when I was a social worker, too. Part of this unbelonging anywhere sensation I have may be fueled by the ongoing wanna-be-writer status I maintain: I keep on trying new things for which I am perpetually minimally qualified.
Thanks for bringing new questions to my messy mind.
I’m glad you mentioned this, Shira, because I wanted to include it, but was pressed for time. I feel as though we have these fantasies that others are absolutely in control of their careers and enjoy every second of them. But I have to wonder how much venture capitalists, for example, actually enjoy what they do, even with all the money they earn. They must get used to it, not not get any time to enjoy it, right? I’ve already accepted the fact that I’ll make little to no cash writing – that’s fine, so I don’t think the guilt arises from the sludge of macho, capitalist America.
I know what you mean about teaching. I actually was a fraud when I taught English in Chile – I lied on my resume to find work, saying I was certified. But I eventually found my “teaching voice,” as they call it, and allegedly taught some great classes. But even my qualified teaching experiences of recent months have smacked of charlatanism. Must be something in the water. Maybe we should replace our Brita filters.
You just put my thoughts down Shira. I feel this way every time I step into a classroom, no matter what I teach. I always have a slight moment of panic when I realize that the people in front of me are looking to me for answers about physics, writing, or college success (the classes I teach.) My teaching mentor my first year in the profession said this is what makes a good teacher, the fact that we don’t think we know it all.
You drink fancy whiskey, you go to fancy writers’ conferences, you complain, you talk, you feel that no one reads, you believe the only way to be published is to write like Tom Clancy — sounds to me you have all the stereotypical writing habits, activities and conversations down. Congratulations. The only thing you seem to be missing is tenure. Oh, and that other thing: publications. Unless you have those then I am thinking yes, you are a fraud.
Thanks Datsun – you’re too kind. Tenure actually sounds like a nice game plan. Good thing I announced in the comment above that I lied to find work in Chile – that ought to do wonders for me in the job market.
Strong words from someone who comments using a made-up handle rather then his name.
I comment using a made-up name that sounds like it could be a real name.
Yeah, I was wondering why you keep doing this, Preston.
Thanks for the tip, Marcus.
*high five*
Don’t worry, my brother. You play the game well. Something tells me that you will be just fine.
Mazdas are way cooler than Datsuns, Datsun. But I appreciate the encouragement, all the same.
So, umm, you haven’t been published then?
It’s been about 4 years. I always keep manuscripts floating about various slush piles, though.
Sweet, me too. Graduate school sucks.(random comment)
You really have the self-righteous game down. Something tells me you’ll end up just fine, too.
Mr. Pot, You are confirming what is already known. Yours truly, Black Kettle
What does race have to do with any of this?
Can’t you tell? I am Japanese.
“When people say, “Oh, I hate getting compliments in workshop because they’re not helpful,” all I think is, shut the fuck up. Everybody wants to be adored, and our words are our bare breasts, our pasty upper thighs. Everybody wants positive feedback, but we’re trained to be tough and modest. The problem is, so much feedback is bullshit, anyway, positive and negative. It’s as though we’re forced to be dishonest.”
Word.
If you didn’t want validation of some sort, then you wouldn’t be in the class, wouldn’t be trying to get published, etc.
But at the same time, you can’t really write with a “I want people to love meeeeeeee” and “Oh! Please! Choose me! Take me seriously!” sort of attitude either.
I suppose I understand what you’re saying regarding the guilty feelings, but the way I see it, it’s more like, “Ha! It’s hilarious that this works out on occasion!” Yes, I occasionally feel like I’m putting one over on whoever has requested material from me, but at the same time, I think, “Well, may as well kick ass while I’m here.”
Ah, writing — the simultaneous over and under-inflated ego.
Over and under-inflated ego, indeed. The way I see it, as long as we’re writing every day and sending things out, then we’re in good shape, the former more important than the latter. I suspect this fraudulence so many writers feel may actually be our internal editors in disguise, pissing broken glass in our sugar bowls, but who knows.
[...] This post was mentioned on Twitter by Frances Dinkelspiel and Mark Pritchard, Cynthia Christian. Cynthia Christian said: RT @MarkPritchard: Informal poll of Squaw Valley Writers attendees reveals most secretly feel they are frauds, not "real" writers: http://bit.ly/c2w7CW [...]
I cannot speak for every writer at Squaw, obviously – only those with whom I spoke on the matter.
But to respond to the post itself:
1. Everyone feels this way, at least at first.
2. The feeling you describe is actually the opposite of the humility called for when Roberto Bolaño wrote “With every day that passes, I am more convinced that the act of writing is a conscious act of humility.” (nplusonemag.com/i-never-went-to-blanes) What you describe is not humility but pure angst.
3. Eventually you realize that worrying about whether you’re entitled to call yourself a writer is a waste of time, time that’s better spent on the work itself. But as I say, everyone feels that way from time to time. Just stop it as soon as you can.
Good points, Mark. Writing is always like whacking a pinata for me – you just have to keep doing it every day, and you’ll eventually get some candy. That said, I’m not sure who actually whacks pinatas every day. I ought to revise that simile…
Sam. You don’t have to revise it. I whack pinatas every day. It’s a morning ritual I have. Better than coffee.
I agree with what Mark said. I read this post earlier today, and I remember once feeling the way you describe above, but that feeling is more your idea of what a writer should be than what a writer is. Saying “I’m a writer” or “I’m a guy who writes” are both a sort of posturing. I went through a phase where I identified myself as “a guy who likes to write,” which is what I actually am. But the more I wrote, the more I realized I don’t have to identify myself outwardly in this way nor do I have to worry if others around me see me as this because I’m actually doing it (i.e. the difference between talk and action) whether I’m any good or not.
Thing is, worrying about it as an identity distracts from the task at hand, which is getting words on the page. I like the line from the opening of Tropic of Cancer, which I’ll paraphrase, since I don’t have a copy nearby: ‘I used to worry about whether or not I was a writer. I know longer worry because I am.’ What helps is the realization that no one really cares if you’re a writer or not and doing it in spite of this. I suppose this is harder to do if you’re in a program, since everyone around you is questioning whether they’re good enough and if they’re really a writer and that kind of thinking is infectious if you’re immersed in it.
Another thing that helps is realizing that there’s no one way for a writer to be a writer. You can dream of being a writer as a kid and enter an MFA and become a scholar and teach, that’s one way. But you could also work in an office and scribble on your commute home, or you could be the guy who collects garbage in the morning and then gets home and tries to settle down on the sofa with a notepad. You could be like Norman McLean and spend your whole life doing other things until you turn 71 and sit down to write your stories and publish a fine little gem of a book.
This has probably been said in other comments here, but what’s important is not whether or not you’re a writer. What’s important is actually doing it and stop quibbling about the label.
I agree with all this.
Well put.
3rd.
“Another thing that helps is realizing that there’s no one way for a writer to be a writer.”
I’m glad you said that because for me, the stereotypes people have about writers are what make me feel like the label “writer” doesn’t fit me. If someone asks me what I do, I tell them I’m a student (or, previously, a barista, a hotel worker, etc). If I say “writer” I have to explain myself, have to hear how they wouldn’t have guessed that, though they never seem to be able to tell me what they would have guessed. I believe someone said I looked like a preschool teacher. I know someone said I seemed like a librarian, which is close enough, I guess.
I’ve only felt “qualified” for a job a few times—washing dishes, doing manual labor, working at the computer labs, teaching calculus. The rest of my jobs have been complete scams, up until the point where I figured out what I was doing.
But isn’t that fine? Us frauds scam our way into jobs and responsibilities that we’re not qualified for so that we can become qualified for them?
This is all very true, John. Like I mentioned a few comments up, I lied my way into a teaching gig in Chile and learned how to teach. Hmm.
I think feeling like a fraud is close to feeling like a failure, and that the fraud/failure feeling is what can push you to not settle for a weak line or plot movement or image or whatever it is you’re working on. I like Sara’s observation: “Ah, writing — the simultaneous over and under-inflated ego.” That tension between insecurity and ego seems crucial to the whole business. But if the tension gets out of balance — too much ego or too much insecurity — you can just get paralyzed, in the case of too much insecurity, or become incapable of seeing the flaws in your work, in the case of too much ego. But if it’s just a question of sort of obsessing on status — “writer,” “fraud,” etc. — then you might have a much harder time doing the work. As Mark says above, everyone feels this way from time to time. And I think he’s referring to status or how we view ourselves and how that can get in the way maybe. The failure feeling, though, the idea that every work will be a failure to some degree, is something that I don’t want to lose.
Being aware of failure or looking for failure not only makes me less likely to let a mediocre line/image/plot move/whatever survive on the page, but I think it’s sort of liberating. I want to make a line/character/story/paragraph/novel as strong as I can make it. Knowing I’ll fail might make me less afraid in approaching and later breaking and re-imagining the work. And after it’s done, whenever I finally walk away, I’m free to fail again. That famous Beckett quote about effort and failure and stamina resonates with a lot of writers, I think: “Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.” I guess I am seeing a distinction between knowing you’ll fail on the page and trying for perfection anyway, and feeling like a fraud regarding your status as a writer. Too much concern about status just seems like a waste of time. On the other hand, every writer I know feels like a fraud at some point. And I imagine every writer is a failure — not regarding how they view themselves, necessarily, but just in how they struggle with the story, line, paragraph, image, word, etc., trying over and over for impossible perfection.
I always forget about the Beckett quote, and it comes up so often. I suppose there’s a sort of joy in knowing that one will always fail, never know perfection. One of my old friends, who used heroin years ago, told me that he found perfection in life the very first time he shot up, but every subsequent attempt fell short. Now that he’s clean, he knows he’ll never be that happy again, which gets him down every day. So yeah – fuck The Great American Novel (not that anyone wields that phrase anymore), or whatever one’s idea of perfection is. It’s probably better not to know.
As for the workshops, that’s always hard because as writers, we know what good words are given that we’re (hopefully) well read. But, in workshops, we’re still getting our chops down, and by definition, we’re reading drafts, not final products.
So it’s this relative balance between knowing what a work can be, and having to comment on where it is, and in the greater scheme of things, knowing where the bar is set in the literary world, and having to comment on where the writer currently is.
I remember a few workshops at BSU (I think you may have been in a couple of them) where I respectfully gave my opinion that the story in question had no legs, that they could revise and revise it, but it wouldn’t be a good and engaging story. But of course, in the end, I felt guilty and like an asshole for being so honest with them, even if respectfully. So, there’s guilt on both sides, it seems.
(Side note: the phrase “come into extreme luck” placed so soon after the image of sucking off Tom Clancy is kind of hilarious if you think about it.)
Oh yeah, I remember our classes together. 287 and 387 (fic 2 and 3, I believe). The fantasy pieces seemed the most helpless, as I recall – I’m sure had a few stinkers as well.
And you’re right: brutal honesty – while necessary as it may seem, especially after one reads the 8th paragraph of phonetic, expository dialogue spoken by an ogre mage – lends itself to guilt, too. I completely understand why Barb Bogue always made a point to remind us that our submitted pieces are works in progress.
As for, “…suck off Tom Clancy, or come into extreme luck,” perhaps I should change the conjunction to and. Or maybe not.
*I’m sure I had a few stinkers as well.
Yeah. She really emphasized that works in progress point. I mean, hell. We were undergrads. What did we know? I wonder how many people thought I was a dickhole.
Guilt is stupid.
I wish you could be at Matt and Amy’s wedding party at my house this weekend. Kyle will be there, too. I can’t imagine the night would end without us not feeling guilty about something–at least when we woke up in the morning.
Man, that sounds great – a la Devon Street, 2006. Tell everyone I said hello, especially Matt and Amy. I’ve been a terrible friend – I haven’t seen Matt and Amy since January, possibly earlier. Everyone’s been so busy, it seems.
Consider it done, man.
I also think that this fraud/failure feeling has the potential to only get worse when you leave workshops and grad school. When I tell someone I’m a writer and they say something like “Oh, who do you write for?” and I say, “Oh, no, I write fiction, but I actually teach GED classes for a living.” I normally get blank, confused looks. These probably should make me feel less like a “real” writer, but I mostly just try to laugh at them.
Also, I wonder if feeling like a fraud and feeling guilty about being a writer is one of the things that pushes people towards MFA programs, at least subconciously. If we think that having a degree in writing will somehow get rid of that fraud feeling because we can point to a piece of paper and say “See, somebody thinks I’m a writer. Take me seriously.” Of course, that being said, I’ve had at least a few people tell me that MFA’s in creative writing aren’t “real” Masters. So, so much for that.
Oh God, telling people what one does when one writes. I’ve gotten to the point where if someone asks me what I do, I get really excited, vaguely cocky, explain that I’m a writer, that I create universes out of nothing, sort of like gods do. I’ll jostle them, tell them that I’m liberated from the dollar, in the sense that my discipline transcends money, that I’ve separated my art from capitalism. Then I’m asked how I pay rent, I say financial aid, and start to worry again.
Good call on the “on paper” thing. The more I live, the more I find that such achievements are bullshit in many ways. I picked this program to hit the snooze button on the alarm clock of life, essentially, as well as spend time with awesome, like-minded people; it’ll sound kinda cool to say, “I have a master’s degree” for awhile, but what I’ll really remember are the people.
Question Sam: What would make you feel less of a fraud? Does publication credits help?
I swing back and forth between feeling like I’m accomplishing something with my prose and feeling like a fraud. I need the affirmation from others, but not necessarily from editors or publication credits, sometimes positive feedback from writers whose work I like counts higher. Many times when I get a piece accepted I think it’s a fluke.
Most people I have met who were convinced they were great writers, wrote prose I did not care for. This gives me great comfort when I have a “I hate my writing” day. :-)
I think publication credits would help. Then once I splash in that fountain of glory for awhile, then I’ll aim higher once the guilt sets back in – maybe a full-length memoir or novel. After that, who knows? I write every day (usually) and make sure I always have manuscripts floating out there in various slush piles, so I guess if one is always writing and one always has goals in mind, one is okay. Nice. Thanks, Asa : )
And yes, I totally know what you mean about braggarts. It’s like Sara/Sam L. said above about finding balance between the over- and under-inflated egos.
You’re more dedicated than I Sam. I don’t have enough queries and essays out there and I have major trouble writing everyday. (Unless you count commenting on Bark and Facebook and writing emails.)
I think working on an actual writing project every day would make me feel like I could “splash in the fountain of glory.” (I’m so stealing that!)
It’s all yours!
Everyone would do well to read this:
http://therumpus.net/2010/08/dear-sugar-the-rumpus-advice-column-48-write-like-a-motherfucker/
I love love that column. It’s kind of unbelievable.
Agreed – I’d take Sugar as an internal editor any day.