A Notebook Didn't Make Me A Writer

Writing did. Where I came from and how I finally claimed my dream.

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a writer. At least, that’s what I told myself. Being a writer was a fantasy. Actually doing it was another story altogether. I modeled myself after my literary best friend, Harriet M. Welsch; you might know her by her more familiar handle. She was Harriet the Spy. Harriet was my muse before I knew what a muse was. And she still is.

There were so many reasons to love her, but the thing I loved the most was her habit of carrying a notebook with her wherever she went. She faithfully documented her observations of the people in her world. Sometimes she sported her dad’s old eyeglasses (without the lenses) because she thought they made her look smarter.

At 11, she was committed to her craft and couldn’t imagine doing anything else except writing. She’d known it for years.

Here's the thing. I modeled myself after her. I had the notebook, I had the pen, though I didn’t have the glasses, just yet. I believed I needed them to fulfill the requirements necessary to write. I was disappointed each time I went to the eye doctor for my annual exam. Every year, I’d try to cheat the test. I’d squint and make effortful faces and act like I was trying really hard to read the letters on the chart. I’d make believe that the letter E was an 8, or an 8 was a three, that an M was a W and on and on.

And each time, the eye doctor would look at me and shake his head, smile just a tiny bit, enough for me to see. He’d say, “Nancy, you can’t beat this test. You have better than perfect vision. You should be happy about that. You don’t want to need glasses.” But I did. More than anything, I wanted to look smart, too. But no. I had better than perfect vision. My nickname was Eagle Eye.

I had almost all the props. I even did a little sneaking around. But I didn’t write, I just thought about it. Once in a while, I’d make a half-hearted attempt, only to abandon it two or three sentences in.

The only time I wrote was when I had book reports or other homework. I read all the time. But writing was scary, because I was sure I wouldn’t be any good at it. I didn’t even try; my fear of failure was paralyzing. The fantasy remained just that.

When I got to junior high, my English teacher, Mrs. Cushman, gave us an assignment for homework one night. We had to write a funny story. I don’t remember what I wrote. I do remember the comment she made at the top of my paper. “Nancy, you understand satire and hit your reader over the head with it.” I didn’t understand that she was giving me a compliment, until I read the rest, “Great job. Keep up the good work, writer!” The only thing I could focus on was that she gave me a B+ and I wondered why I didn’t get an A, after all the nice things she said. That was all that mattered…and the fact that I’d be expected to do it again. To do good work, to make her laugh. Instead, I froze.

I was always afraid of not meeting the rigid standards I set for myself. A B+ wasn’t good enough, and if I couldn’t get an A, I wasn’t going to risk anything. I did the bare minimum to get by in all my subjects. My bare minimum was pretty damn good.

The only thing I did write were the many greeting cards I gave to my dad, and sometimes I’d write him longer letters, too. He’d say I was an excellent writer, and I should do it more often, and that maybe one day, I’d be a pro. It was just more pressure. The praise felt like a foretelling of certain failure to my terrified brain. I’d think of Harriet, ashamed that I was letting her down, again.

I was a champ at buying notebooks and pens. I loved stationery stores. I’d take a stab at writing every so often, a paragraph or two here and there. Then I’d give up and put the latest almost empty black and white marble composition notebook on a bookshelf in my room, next to the other almost empties. I even bought myself a diary once, but I hated it, with its wimpy little lock and key and its Holly Hobbie cover. Eww. It was far too girly for my tomboy aesthetic.

I loved fountain pens and rapidographs and had a rainbow selection of ink bottles. I taught myself how to do calligraphy and became the enterprising teenager the parents would come to when they needed invitations addressed for their kid’s bar and bat mitzvahs. So, I was writing a little, right? Yeah, no.

I was the editor of my high school literary magazine but would rarely submit anything of mine for publication. Those who can write, write. Those who can’t write, often edit others who can.

As I got older, I kept buying notebooks, thinking it would eventually work. My tastes got more sophisticated so I graduated to choosing pricey Moleskines and other fancy brands. I attached magical thinking to my purchases, imagining that if the notebook was better, prettier, more expensive, my words would finally come. Something was calling to me to write my life down, but my fear and low self-esteem stopped me every time.

I have more empty notebooks than I can count. I’ve cut first pages out of far too many of them, but that never works, because then they feel tainted, ruined, unusable.

As I got older still, the dream would waft in and out, I’d write something, put it away and not pick up a pen for years. I was an intermittent dabbler at best.

When I was 50, something shifted. I’d been through so much; years of depression, the long illness and death of my father, a terrible relationship with my mother, 2 months of “renting a room” in an Upper West Side psych unit. I had plenty to write about.

I met a woman who was a local writing teacher, and I took a chance and joined her class. I wrote a couple of things and was told that though there was potential, my words were powerful, my words were also angry and full of resentment and a desire for revenge. That’s not a good fit for serious memoir. My words were more suited for private journal rants than an essay I would ever share publicly.

One of the things that I’d bump up against in my early attempts to write was the need to embrace drafts. First, second, third. You know the drill. I didn’t understand––and this is almost embarrassing to admit–– that you’re not supposed to write a fully formed piece on the first pass. And that drafts aren’t mistakes, they’re not failures, they’re the way in. It took me years to learn that editing IS writing. I perceived any input I’d receive as criticism, not support, and I’d slink away, my fear of failure running the show, again.

One day about 13 years ago, I attended a storytelling competition as an observer. The writing teacher I worked with produced the show, and when she saw me in the audience, she came up to me and pointing to the stage and smiling, said, “Next year, you’ll be up there.”

I nodded in response, eyes wide, but internally I choked at the thought of doing what these brave people were doing up on that stage. “There’s no way I could ever do that,” I thought to myself. The idea of it made me woozy and nauseous.

Next, I worked long distance with another teacher, who encouraged me, said I was a terrific writer, and then she made a huge faux pas. She CC’d me accidentally in an email to her assistant, badmouthing me for being a high maintenance student. It was hard and sad, and I was livid. All trust in her disintegrated, as she desperately tried to take back and smooth over what happened. It took a very long time to regain my confidence.

I work and live and socialize in a community made up of a multitude of talented writers. I hung on the periphery of the world I longed to be a part of. I consigned myself to the role of devoted reader and fan. I had the itch, but for five years from the day of that initial story slam, I couldn’t get my nerve together to do what they’d done, until I realized that if I didn’t try to do the things that scared me, I’d always have regrets.

I started writing 4-minute stories for my former teacher’s story slam. Once or twice a year, I’d come up with a 500-word story based on a prompt; the prompt was a sentence that had to be included in each storyteller’s piece. That’s all the writing I did for the next 8 years. One or two stories a year equaling 1000 words a year. But I’d been bitten by two bugs. Writing and performing. Fear of bombing, coupled with intense body shame, made me terrified to get on that stage. In the beginning I depended on Dr. Ativan to help smooth me out before I’d perform. But as time went on, it got easier and much more fun. I’ve even taken home some wins over the last bunch of slams. I relieved Dr. Ativan of his services long ago. I don’t need him anymore.

For the six years leading up to my debut on Substack, when people would ask me at literary events if I was a writer, I’d apologetically admit that I dabbled, I’d say, “I write sometimes.” But I wouldn’t dare call myself a writer. That title was too big, too special, too much of a commitment for me.

A couple of years ago, I hit bottom and found myself attending a 12 Step meeting and I began seeing positive changes in my life. I was inspired and something about the work set my hesitant voice free. I wanted to share my experience with others. I wanted to write about what I was learning there and how I was healing. I wanted to give back. At the time, I was in a relationship with a wonderful woman who was also a writer. When she viewed recordings of a couple of my old performances, she said, “Nan, you’re a writer. You have to write.” Instead of turning away from her impression of me, her opinion, I decided to do something different. I decided to trust her and write. We began to write together for an hour every day for a couple of months, and I gained some confidence, some clarity. I started listening to my writer’s voice. I stopped comparing myself to others. I started putting my words on the page. I stopped minimizing myself.

Today, I have no doubt. I am meant to write the stories of my life. I’m not as scared as I used to be.

This past weekend, I came up against a feeling I haven’t experienced much in the last year and half. I couldn’t think of anything to write for my weekly column. I struggled. I started several pieces, but nothing was coming through. Writer’s block, according to author Melissa Febos, is just fear. I agree. My fear isn’t about being afraid to write my stories. I’m not afraid. I give myself permission to write hard things.

My fear goes deeper. Because I have a track record of starting many things enthusiastically, but quitting when it gets hard. I’m afraid that if I skip a week, it will become a trend, and I’ll stop altogether. I’m scared to take a break. But I may need to, every so often, and that’s got to be okay. Just because I’ve quit things in the past, doesn’t mean I’ll do that now. And writing my stories these last couple of years has fed me in a way that nothing else has. I’m hungry for it every day. I write in my head constantly. I wake up in the middle of the night and dictate snippets into my phone, because I know I’ll forget them if I don’t. I get up each morning with essays brewing, right along with my coffee. I observe the world more closely, seeing almost everything as an opportunity for a story, a sentence, an idea. What a gift, to get out of my own way and let myself live a fully realized life.

I am, like Harriet, a writer. And unlike Harriet, I’m not a fictional character.

1. I’m so grateful when readers decide to support my writing financially by becoming paid subscribers, so if you want to do that, thank you, thank you!

2. If paid subscriptions aren’t your thing, but you want to support me, I still can’t resist buying a nice notebook now and then!

3. AND, here’s a thing you can do that doesn’t cost a penny. On the top or bottom of the story, you can click on the “♥️” to like my essay, click on the speech bubble (💬) and leave a comment, and/or click on the little spinny arrow thingy (♻️) and restack the post (“restack” means “share” in Substackese).

Those three actions will help me reach more readers!

As a final parting gift, take a gander at this somewhat humorous, though slightly tragic story I performed in 2017. The sentence that had to be in the piece is “Wait, You Said What?”

It’s about my mother. Enough said. Enjoy! xo