I had to write an author’s note this week for my best piece ever as I prepare for its publication. No, really, it is the best thing I will ever write. I needed an author’s note that would do it justice, but I’ve never written an author’s note before. I convinced myself I didn’t know how. I asked a friend for help, but she pointed out to me that she can’t always answer my questions. I’ve been thinking about this since our text conversation, and I still can’t reconcile myself with the person that she sees me to be. A successful writer? What?? Funny, because one of my responses to her was to “see the person I see in her.” That’s me though; I can’t see the me that other people see. So I get it when I see it in someone else. No matter how many times I publish, no matter how much I write, I’m not going to see myself as a writer. I’m always going to doubt myself, always going to see the times I’m not writing and not successful before I see the times I am.
I don’t think I see me.
So who do I see?
I see round cheeks that my short hair accentuates. I see chubby thighs. I see more declined publications than accepted. A bottom shelf book, a tiny room, zero friends, a job I can’t keep up with, and a sick cat I can’t afford to pay for.
I see a girl who’s scared to try a good school and scared to apply to phD programs because no matter what happens, she is certain they will not work out. Or, more accurately, that she will not work out. A girl who does not know what she is doing.
The people in my life don’t see these things in me, which makes me feel like I’m missing something.
So what don’t I see? I mean, if I was a observer coming in blind, with no knowledge of me at all?
My hair is pretty damn cute. I have calf muscles like nobody’s business. I have more publications than others who have been writing longer. I’m moving soon to a larger place. I’m good at my job, and I like puppies. And my cat is doing well.
See, I can beat up on myself all I want. But that doesn’t make me the person that I think I am. It doesn’t make me underqualified for a phD program or unable to survive a dissertation committee.
When I was back in Wisconsin, I wrote every day. I was a writing then. I was an English major, but, for all intents and purposes, I was English literature. Now I am a creative writing graduate student, and I am lucky to find moments like these at the very end of my day where I can scribble a few incredibly lame words down. I carry around a notebook in the backpack I bring dog walking, but I rarely have time to remember to pull it out. My day is dog dog maybe eat dog dog dog dog dog etc.
I do not feel like a writer. That’s a running theme this week, but it’s the truth. I do not feel like a writer, but it doesn’t mean I’m not one.
After two rounds of heavy struggle bus edits, contract renegotiations, and a myriad of things I don’t understand or know that I did correctly, and I’ll have a shiny new large publication next week. I have survived criticism, rewrites, and editing sadness. Whether I think I know what I’m doing, whether I legitimately know what I’m doing, I’m probably a writer. I might see the bad, but there’s a lot of good there too.
I wrote an author’s note. It’s probably not the best author’s note to ever grace this magazine’s pages, but I did do it. There you have it.