Anthony Reese

The life of a writer is a truly terrifying thing. Not in the way most people may think, though. It’s not the general lack of a paycheck. It’s not the anxiety of writer’s block. It’s not the seemingly never-ending stream of editors and agents telling us how not-good-enough we are. It’s something much worse.

I promise, I’m not trying to be dramatic here. There are, undeniably, so many more dangerous professions, countless individuals who truly put their lives at risk on a daily basis. And no matter which way you spin it, writers are simply not among those courageous souls (unless you’re Martha Gellhorn). We sit comfortably inside the four walls of our own homes—or lounge on vintage furniture in ritzy coffeehouses—and we benefit from the luxuries of such a life. Our profession is not typically perilous, and we know it.

But every single day, we do lay at least a part of ourselves on the line for that which we cherish most. To write is to expose oneself to the masses, to reveal the most intimate parts of the mind to the critics and the naysayers of the world. And that takes courage.

If you are a writer to any degree, you understand the fear of such susceptibility. And what’s more, you understand the frustration of realizing that most of the world looks down upon you. But I’ve recently realized we are up against something so much more terrifying. I came across this quote a few days ago by Joshua Wolf Shenk, author of Powers of Two: How Relationships Drive Creativity and essayist for such publications as The Atlantic, The New Yorker, and The New York Times. Here’s his take on the dangers of writing:

Get through a draft as quickly as possible. Hard to know the shape of the thing until you have a draft. Literally, when I wrote the last page of my first draft of Lincoln’s Melancholy I thought, Oh, shit, now I get the shape of this. But I had wasted years, literally years, writing and re-writing the first third to first half. The old writer’s rule applies: Have the courage to write badly.

Although he’s talking about something else entirely, Shenk clearly understands that the greatest fear a writer faces is the fear of his own criticism. Sure, it’s disheartening to weather the world’s harsh responses to your writing, but what’s worse: disappointing people you’ve never met or disappointing yourself? I believe it’s the latter.

I uploaded a blog post sometime last week in which I discussed why I hate—or should I say hated, past tense—the process of editing. For the longest time, I believed it was because of some lack of self-discipline, that when it came down to it, I didn’t want to devote the time necessary to transforming my first draft into something great. But then it hit me: I’m not dreading the work itself; I’m dreading the act of reading the pitiful attempts at prose I concocted during my first stint in front of the computer screen. And that fear controls so many of my writing habits.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sat in front of a blank screen, failing to type out a single word for hours at a time. It’s not due to writer’s block, as many like to say; I usually know exactly what I want to write. It’s fear that keeps me from writing, and that’s it. Fear that this one last disappointment will be the end to my inspiration, my passion. Can it really be such a fragile thing? I’m inclined to say no, but my actions, my anxieties suggest otherwise.

Just as I think I might drown in the depression of all this, I come full circle to the beginning of Shenk’s quote. He succeeded in overcoming his fear, and hundreds of thousands before him have done the same, so what’s stopping me? What’s stopping you?

Raymond Carver said, “You’ve got to work with your mistakes until they look intended,” and I don’t think there’s any better summary of the editing process. But you never get there until you put down that first draft. Take courage in your writing today, tomorrow, this week. Have the fortitude to write badly, and know that the real challenge of writing comes afterwards, in the editing and revising, the fine-tuning, the molding of your idea. Trust your gut first, though, and do what you do best: write.

Among many things, Anthony Reese is a father, a husband, a travel addict, and a writer. He has a Bachelor’s degree in interdisciplinary studies with concentrations in English and print media from North Greenville University and is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing at Converse College.

Cheryl Russell

I was at Panera, waiting for my editor and friend Amy.  We were meeting to go over my novel she had finished working on. I rarely like what I’ve worked on, and this novel was no exception. But the fact she was willing to meet me and not just mail back my manuscript was a positive sign that it wasn’t a complete loss as far as novels went. As I waited, I checked my email.

One of the emails was from Amy, titled “editing notes.”  The first note started with “It seemed like there were two novels at work…” and then went on to explain why Amy believed the novel was two incomplete stories instead of one. She also stated which section she thought was the strongest of the two and why.

I wasn’t sure what to think. While it appeared I no longer had a completed novel, I did have significant parts of two, and one of those parts “shined.” Shiny was good, right?

I finished scanning the notes; most of them confirmed what I had already suspected as weaknesses that needed fixing—not anchored in a particular place in time, a weird ending (I was tired when I finished it, sick of working on it, and I ended up summarizing the ending, which ended up confusing Amy). By the time I had finished the email, Amy had arrived. Once she had settled herself into the booth, I plunged ahead.

“So,” I said. “Parts of two novels?”

“Yes,” Amy replied, and once she explained her thoughts, I couldn’t argue. She was right, there were two distinct story lines in the novel, each needing to be explored in their own right. One story needs a beginning; the other needs an ending. Amy and I began to bounce ideas back and forth while I took notes.  The section we both like best is the second half of the original novel. I now need to write a new beginning and instead of filling me with dismay, I am excited with the challenge. “What if….” gets free reign, with multiple story lines loose in my imagination.

I also have the beginning to a second novel, which means I need to write a new ending. Great news for one of my characters; he stands an excellent chance at resurrection. (I killed him off originally because I didn’t know what to do with him.)

I now feel I have stories I can get behind; ones that excite me and make me curious about how it all going to turn out. Feelings that I lost a while ago, and now I know why, thanks to another set of eyes and a detached assessment of my work.

“It seemed like there were two novels at work….” are not words I want to see the next time I send her a novel to edit, but this time,  there are two novels that need completed and sent out as independent stories, able to stand on their own.

Cheryl Russell received her MFA from Converse College in 2013. Her work has appeared in Infuze, Title Trakk, Focus on Fiction, The Storyteller, Ruminate, and Rose and Thorn. She currently teaches at Malone University. She resides in Ohio.

Interview by Debby DeRosa

If you are a fan of the short story, Telling Stories by Walter Cummins is a collection you don’t want to miss.  Published earlier this year by Del Sol Press, it features twenty-five pieces that showcase the range of Cummins’ mastery of the art of the short story. The title piece, “Telling Stories,” was originally published in the Spring / Summer 2014 issue of South 85 Journal.  To celebrate the new collection, South 85 Journal caught up with Cummins for an interview.

***

Tell us about how you developed the idea for this collection.

“Telling Stories” was the inspiration for the collection.  Rather than being an after-the-fact choice for a title piece, it became the impetus to gather other stories that explored the possibilities of where stories come from.  In “Telling Stories,” Russell, the protagonist, can’t stop regarding the lives of others as sources for fictional situations.  But what writer doesn’t?  Or is it just me?  But I’ll plead that I’m not as fixated as Russell.  At least not at this stage of my life.

As the description of Telling Stories on your website notes, the collection “explore(s) many varieties of storytelling.”  Did you make the selections to showcase different types of stories? 

The recognition of the varieties was, unlike the title story, after-the-fact.  I saw the stories I had chosen and realized they constituted a range—from traditional realism to almost fabulism, from consequential narration to groupings of compressed scenes, from “normal” length to short shorts, from third person to first.

In that case, how did you decide what stories to include in the collection?

When choosing the stories to include, I began with the intention of sticking with stories published in magazines since my previous collection.  Then I decided to look over stories published many years ago in the pre-digital days, the earliest from 1972 and 1973.  In fact, one was my first story publication after years of my trying—and failing—to be a novelist.  I unearthed about twenty-five uncollected old stories (thus the “Old” in the subtitle) and rejected half.  The keepers required scanning, something I wouldn’t have attempted in earlier stages of that technology.

What is your favorite type (or types) of story to write?

My ideas for stories arise from a recognition of a character in a problematic situation, often from actual behavior I’ve observed or been told about.  The writing challenge involves coming up with an initial scene and developing that scene into a shaped story, through discovering what happens next and how what happens makes a statement.  Every story requires many stages of problem solving.  I can’t sit down and plan to write one of the varieties in the collection.  I let the character and the situation determine how the story will turn out.

One thing that really impresses me about your stories is your intimate knowledge of your subjects and characters.  Do you have to research your subjects, or do you choose subjects and types of characters that you already know a lot about?

I do almost no research beyond checking the accuracy of certain details.  The places that serve as the settings I usually know well, and I often present them in an almost reportorial sense.  It’s the characters that are made up, sometimes based on people I know, but frequently on people I’ve seen interacting, say, on a train or in a restaurant.  In the writing, I try to imagine their life circumstances and the drama that arises from them.  Your question led me to do tabulation: only six of the twenty-five stories in the collection could be considered autobiographical, with a few others based on circumstances where I was a direct observer.  Most are imagined.

What advice do you have for someone wishing to write short stories?

A story should focus on one central dramatic issue that might involve several characters.  But every incident in the piece should relate to that issue.  Start with a scene that establishes the issue, most usually though some human interaction, and let your imagination take off from that scene.  Almost always, I find the language of that scene the source of all that follows—the narrative tone and perspective.

What other short story collections – or just single stories – can you suggest to our readers?

Beyond the usual list of Joyce, Chekhov, Carver, Alice Munro, Updike, Cheever, Oates, I recommend two British storywriters—Tessa Hadley for her ability to link past and present, often events from decades apart, and Ali Smith for her ability to reinvent what makes a story.  Of course, we are fortunate to live in a time of an abundance of magazines that publish good stories.  They are all around us.

About the Author

Walter Cummins has published six short story collections—Witness, Where We Live, Local Music, The End of the Circle, The Lost Ones, Habitat: stories of bent realism. More than 100 of his stories, as well as memoirs, essays, and reviews, have appeared in magazines, in book collections, and on the Web. With Thomas E. Kennedy, he is co-publisher of Serving House Books, an outlet for novels, memoirs, and story, poetry, and essay collections. For more than twenty years, he was editor of The Literary Review.  He teaches in the MFA in Creative Writing program at Fairleigh Dickinson University.

About the Interviewer

Debby DeRosa holds a BA in English from the University of South Carolina-Columbia and an MFA in Creative Writing from Converse College.  In addition to being Editor-in-Chief of South 85 Journal, she is the Marketing Manager of Five Star Plumbing Heating Cooling in Greer, SC, and she freelances as a copywriter and content developer.

Featured Image Photo Credit:  Walter Cummins

Richard LeBlond

It has been said that quitting heroin is easier than quitting tobacco. If that is true, then as an ex-smoker I can say that giving up either is a piece of cake compared to the addiction of the publishing junkie. After the rush of that first acceptance, there is no turning back.

My dealer is a website that opens its tweed coat (with leather elbow patches) to reveal a list pinned to the silk lining. It is a list of literary journals and magazines currently seeking submissions of poems, short stories, and creative nonfiction.

In the beginning, my dealer was a website that lists its wares alphabetically. I soon realized I would die long before I got to the journal ZYZZYVA, or the journal itself would be dead. The founders of ZYZZYVA must have known they’d end up at the bottom of alphabetized lists, willing to paint themselves into the darkest corner because they didn’t want to hear from writers who go through lists alphabetically.

Then I discovered the “calls for submission” websites, and my addiction became hard-wired. Here were journals with open submission periods fresh off the boat from Columbia, or tunneled in from Mexico.

Do I have something they might be interested in? I read the editor’s credo or gibberish. I’m an essayist, so I head for the creative nonfiction. This is where I am usually thwarted. Most creative nonfiction in literary journals is what is referred to as narrative nonfiction. It would be mistaken for fiction were it not for the label. That’s not how I write. But I do employ tiny bits of fiction to avoid beatings and lawsuits. I suspect a lot of what passes for fiction is memoir in a witness protection program.

(Storyscape Journal mission statement on the need to declare whether something is fiction or true: “it totally matters if it’s true or invented, because I need to know if I should run around screaming based on the information you gave me or just imagine myself running around screaming.”)

Essays are the stepchild of most literary journals, trailing behind the beloved poems, short stories, and fictioniferous narrative nonfiction. It is a generous journal that allows space for an essay or two. Inspired invention has priority over inspired observation, with narrative nonfiction somewhere in between.

I wade through the website list one by one, looking for connection and suitability. The submission itself is anything but submissive. It is exposure, the thrill of risk, all or nothing. The numerous rejections intensify the few acceptances, and keep in check the excesses of ego.

Even the acceptance comes with a reality check. When I see a journal calling for submissions after it has published my essay, I feel like I have been dumped. I know it was just a one-night stand; still, I gave her my heart. But she has moved on, having her own addiction to attend to.

As every junkie knows, the fix is ephemeral.  It is only days, or hours, before I return to the tweed coat, to the quest for the next fix. Payment is a little piece of my soul. Bit by bit the tweed coat acquires majority interest, and the moment of no return goes unnoticed.

Richard LeBlond is a biologist living in North Carolina, where he worked for that state’s Natural Heritage Program until his retirement in 2007. He continues his biological research, and has added travel, photography, and writing.  His essays and photographs have appeared in or been accepted by several U.S. and international journals, including Montreal Review, Kudzu House, Appalachia, Weber – The Contemporary West, and Still Point Arts Quarterly.

Brit Graham

Recently I’m fixed in the mire between an uncertain creature which plants itself firmly in the realm of creative non-fiction and an unruly piece which tosses its head toward full-throttled, all out verse. An ungainly things lobbing itself into every chipped wooden door frame and jabbing its uncoordinated girth into the edges of glass tables, threatening to impale itself in order to avoid my dry eyed stare. This cumbersome beast lumbers about in place of my swift and brutal fragmented shards of poetry.

The two abstracts perch at opposite ends of the spectrum. Tying them together is like drowning a cat. It doesn’t happen often. Nor does one relatively return unscathed from such encounters. Nor are all things welcomed. Non-fiction should be simple–in theory. You have all your material tossing back shots in the back of your greasy cranium. Bereft without discipline they succumb to creep-crawl spiral of loathing.

The writing. She’s not enough to be sleek and gilded like some long legged gazelle at the edge of a undulating valley of grass rippling in the gentle sun-mottled breeze. No. She needs to have teeth. A little bit of crunch satisfying the itch we can’t quite scathe. Fact is rarely beautiful. The truth hardly unfolds like the pink origami crane your fourth grade best friend diligently creased for you every eighth period. The hand model’s appendage cracks, bone protrudes like a whale breaching the surface of flesh. The ripples, stunning in a certain slant of light, but no matter how beautiful, the wound still aches rips raw decade later.

In this tangled bronze thread of narrative it’s difficult if improbable to enter the spearing shards of fragment my writing has so heavily relied upon. It is difficult to write the benign sentence. The sort that carries brown boxed cargo, containing dusty facts the reader requires in order to make the leap of association needed in order to throw their pitter-patter hearts over the blinding crags of self-pity come chapter twenty-two.

It is difficult, unwieldly for my poetry-trained brain to unhinge from the short and succinct to flush out the full rack of a sentence hiding in this particular copse of wood. Heavy-footed, he does not bend easily to the flutter or breath and brevity. A proper narrative requires order and russet-rutted risk and canary-tinged reward. One must bear down, grind one’s molars together, and drop the beast in order to dissect its steaming inner workings.

It takes a different breed of finesse to shape and deepen those pivotal moments. Honing their bark to the same sharp white-silence retort as the barrel of a sniper rifle in verse. Swift as a soot-dusted memory by line three. Filling the spaces between. That’s the hard part. For it all snow blitzing across old black and white television set, the buzz of a fly beating against the screen door, the smack of the frame batting against the house in a gale. These unnecessary everyday things are required in a piece of fiction, a large piece. Spanning several thousands of words. Grains of sand in a jar, snow buzzing against the back drop. The need for a back drop at all infuriates.

The poet relies on the delicate path, carved by the chipped hooves of mule deer, the poet capable of spotting its black rip through the earth despite the summer’s cascading grasses pitching high over it. These are the short cuts, these are the jumps from line to lone-bitten line, relying on the razor sharp proper associations for their reader to make that leap over the live-wire.

Remain diligent, creep down the path sideways, if you must, gain a little grit, perhaps some dust. Settle alongside her as if you’d been there all along.

For now Brit Graham traverses the tundra that is South Dakota, while tripping over things while stargazing in the all too brief summer months. She is the crux of an ongoing love affair between the Pacific and Atlantic. She managed to pry an MFA in Poetry from the grasp of Converse College. You can read her poetry things in publications like Devilfish Review, The Night Owl, RealSouth Magazine, and The OWL.

Jennifer Brown Banks

Writing, like motherhood, is a thankless job. Despite the countless hours we spend in labor formulating thoughts, worrying, sacrificing sleep, in nurturing the needs of businesses and clients, it seems that everybody’s getting fed except us.

The misconception of our real roles continues to compromise our inherent value. Writers are historians, thought influencers, educators and modern-day messengers. Writers are quite often the faceless “voices” behind powerful political speeches, brand-building commercials, and scripted movies that generate millions at the box office. Still, we are undervalued and misunderstood.

For example, the online ads that entice today’s displaced workers to become a writer and work from home because: “all you need is an Internet connection and English speaking ability.” Another ad I stumbled across recently went as far as to picture a monkey sitting at a typewriter.

Further exacerbating the problem are the numerous publications that adopt the mantra of Wimpy in Popeye: “I’ll gladly pay you Tuesday, for a hamburger today!” Translated? We hope to pay you for your contributions in the future, if our operation can find a way to make a profit now.

What other workers receive compensation in this way?  As soon as you sit in a cab, before you pull off to your intended destination, the driver has the meter already running. If your hairstylist gives you a bad cut, she still wants her “cut” before you leave her chair.

And where is our National Appreciation Day? Let’s see. Congress mandates a National Secretary’s Day, a Teacher’s Appreciation Week, and even a National Ice Cream Sandwich Day. Who knew?

A National Writers’ Appreciation Day would communicate to the world that writers are note-worthy, solid, contributing members of society; as worthy as any other profession of a tee-shirt, once-a-year discount, and Hallmark card line. Not to mention, a specially designated day would go a long way in at least feeding the egos of today’s starving artists! Most importantly, it would trumpet to the world that scribes are much more than couch potatoes, pencil pushers, and dreamers…

Still, like motherhood, our love for this way of life is unconditional. No matter how messy it gets, no matter how overlooked our efforts are, we write because it speaks to our soul. We write to silence the voices in our heads, saving thousands on therapy.

We write because we believe we can make the world better in so doing. We write because it makes us proud. We write because it’s part of our legacy.  Sometimes, we even write to prove that a degree in liberal arts can actually be useful.

And for the opportunity to write, we are thankful.

Jennifer Brown Banks is an award-winning blogger, relationship columnist, and poet. Over the last decade, her work has appeared in numerous print and online publications including: Pro Blogger, The Well-Fed Writer, Technorati, Mahogany Magazine, and Date My Pet.

Featured image photo:  “Monkey-typing” by New York Zoological Society – Picture on Early Office Museum. Licensed under Public Domain via Commons – https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Monkey-typing.jpg#/media/File:Monkey-typing.jpg

Patty Somlo

I thought I was better than this. Haven’t I taught my writing students to just forge ahead, ignoring the critical voice whispering, “You’re no good?” Don’t I say that when you first sit down to write, to spew out whatever comes into your head, that you are getting stuff down and this will be the basis for a good first draft? And, yes, haven’t I said a zillion times that writing and rewriting make the work sing. It doesn’t have to be perfect the first time. That’s what I’ve said and it’s what I believe.

So, why am I in this muddle? Why am I writing and feeling disgusted with myself? Why am I comparing what I’m writing to the fantastic books I have read and reread, and feeling like my work is shit? And why do I keep thinking if I wrote a different novel, started all over from scratch, it would be better than what I’ve written?

This is why. I’m doing something new. For many years, I have written short pieces, both fiction and creative nonfiction. I have published one short story collection and have gotten publishers for two forthcoming books, an essay collection and another short story collection. It is time to work on a novel. And, boy, am I finding it hard.

Some writers plot a course and follow it from start to finish. I have never been one of those writers. I nearly always begin with the thinnest thread of an idea and do my best to follow it through the dark, usually having faith that it will lead me to a good place. I have approached writing my first novel the same way. But I’ve quickly seen what should have been obvious at the start. In a short story, the path might be dark and the destination uncertain. But the path is short. A novel is a cross-country journey, one that might take a year or a lifetime.

So every day after I finish getting down at least a few pages, I have a little talk with myself. I remind myself that even with shorter work, I often go through a phase where I hate what I’ve written. A voice in my head that has helped me through some difficult times reminds me of how often I have revised rough work multiple times and ended up with a final draft that works. Another voice that sounds like my former therapist Dr. Lori suggests I just have fun and enjoy getting to know my characters and discovering their stories. Dr. Lori also says that I shouldn’t forget to breathe and visualize the path that will lead me to the end of this novel.

I listen and nod, knowing they are right. But then the voice I call the Dark Dread tells me that no one will be interested in reading this novel. There are too many characters, he says, no romance, no violence, nothing of interest to anyone but me.

But years of living with the Dark Dread have taught me to not let it win, so I argue back. I remind DD that I’ve just started getting to know the characters and they may turn out to be folks I want to hang out with for a while. There’s Michael, who lives on the second floor of the building where all my main characters live. I picture his blond hair, after he’s gotten it spiky with gel, and I think of how I like him because he blows small problems way out of proportion the way I do. And there’s Anna on the first floor, a once-famous modern dancer who’s hiding secrets I haven’t yet had time to uncover. There’s also the mysterious boy, who suddenly showed up from who knows where, before curling up on the first floor, a few feet from Carlos’s front door.

Then the voice I think of as my Greatest Fan, who’s been there for me more times than I can count, especially in the face of rejection, brings up the novel, The Help, as she often does. “Remember the sixty rejection letters Kathryn Stockett got for The Help and she didn’t give up?” she asks.

I take a deep breath and slowly exhale. I remind myself that I can’t know at this point if my novel will be a total dud or win the Pulitzer Prize. All I know is that I love to write, even when it’s hard, and this novel is what my gut tells me I need to be working on now.

Patty Somlo has received four Pushcart Prize nominations, been nominated for storySouth’s Million Writers Award and had an essay selected as a Notable Essay for Best American Essays 2014. Her forthcoming books are Even When Trapped Behind Clouds (WiDo Publishing), a memoir in essays, and Hairway to Heaven Stories (Cherry Castle Publishing). Her work has appeared in the Los Angeles Review, the Santa Clara Review, Under the Sun, Guernica, The Flagler Review, and numerous anthologies.

South 85 Journal is pleased to announce recognition for one of the fiction pieces published in our Fall / Winter 2014 issue.  “Blowing Smoke” by Rachel Moore has been selected to receive the Write Well Award sponsored by the Silver Pen Writers Association.

According to the Write Well Award website, “This award seeks to recognize outstanding short stories and flash fiction from both print and online journals and to give readers a way to experience stories that they might not otherwise be exposed to.”  Thirty-six different fiction stories were chosen for the award this year.

When South 85 Journal notified Rachel Moore of the honor, she said, “I’m very excited and honored to be receiving the Write Well Award. I am proud of ‘Blowing Smoke,’ and it is incredibly rewarding to share this piece with a wider audience.”

Moore is a twenty-three year old Pittsburgh native. She lives and works on her family’s small farm outside of the city. Moore has a B.A. in History from Allegheny College and is currently a graduate student at the University of Pittsburgh, where she will earn a Master of Library and Information Sciences (MLIS) degree.

Check out all 36 winning stories in the 2015 Write Well Anthology, which is now available on the Kindle and in paperback format through Amazon.com.

After a nice summer break, the South 85 Journal staff is back at work!  We are sad to say goodbye to David Colodney, who has served on the South 85 Journal staff since our Spring / Summer 2014 issue.  Most recently, he was the Managing Poetry Editor of the Spring / Summer 2015 issue.  Also, we will miss Ellie Rodgers, who served on staff as a Poetry Co-Editor for our previous issue.

However, we are happy to welcome back all of the other staff members from last issue.  In addition, we would like to welcome Shianna Whitner, who will serve as a Fiction Co-Editor, and Reed McFarlin, who will serve as a Poetry Co-Editor

As of today, our reading period is open!  We will be accepting poetry, fiction, and non-fiction through April 30, 2016.  We will continue to accept blog and visual art submissions year-round.  For more information, check out our submission guidelines.  Or visit our Submittable page at https://south85.submittable.com/submit to submit now!

We look forward to seeing your work!

David Raney

Years ago my dentist found out I wrote. He said “God, I used to be really good at that. I could write answers on these insurance forms and stuff – nobody could make head or tails of it.” Writing as obfuscation. I had implements in my mouth so fortunately was not required to respond.

If you’re a writer, either you admit to it in social settings or you don’t. Cop to it, and the range of responses is discouragingly slim.

I asked a few writer friends about this. “When I say I’m a writer,” one told me, “people assume I have a book out with my name on it, and I’m possibly a famous person they’ve never heard of.” The next moments don’t go very well if that isn’t the case – if for example you’ve published something (or dozens of somethings) without spies or raised gold lettering.

“Even a lot of my old friends seem to be shaky on what I do,” another one said. “I’ve had people say ‘Oh you write for the paper?’ when I’ve been reviewing there for the past six years. And even when I explain, the bemused look stays in their eyes. The whole livelihood is fuzzy.”

I don’t often tell people I’m a writer, partly because I’m never quite sure I am. It’s not usually part of my job description, but that’s not the real reason I hesitate. Mostly it’s to avoid what follows. The polite cocktail party response – although to be perfectly accurate I’ve never attended a cocktail party – is “Oh how interesting, what have you written?” If the answer isn’t a novel, things can get hazy fast. When people learned I was a college teacher I used to get plenty of “Must be great to work three hours a day and have summers off.” But writing is, if anything, even less understood.

I think I’ll start answering “What do you do?” with just “I write” – and the inevitable follow-up with “Whatever seems true to me and might be interesting to someone else.” This will engender a few good talks with fellow sufferers and many premature trips to the bar for refills. But I’ve come to think of it as what I do, and also to feel less apologetic than I used to.

I’ve had a little luck publishing my pieces, but that’s not what has changed. (No one wants to hear your list of rejections and acceptances anyway.) I think it’s just that I’ve finally spent enough hours, weeks, years with my butt in a chair trying to get words to come. You pick the time and place, smells, drinks, noise level, favorite pen, whatever works, and you do it. Do it long enough, even (especially) when you don’t want to, and you’re a writer.

For me it’s legal pads and no capital letters (this fools my brain that things are already flowing, there’s no forbidding “Once Upon a Time” gate to open), plus a little background noise and some coffee. It isn’t so much superstition as training. You’re saying to your body “This is what happens now.”

So tell your friend/lover/barista/dentist you’re writing a novel or poem – or don’t. Say you’re a writer or else let it be your secret power, whatever makes it real. Just sit down somewhere, or stand on a ladder, and make words. They stand a good chance of begetting other words. Some you make better, some you throw out. That’s what we do.

David Raney is a writer and editor living in Atlanta with a great wife, two great kids and an enormous dog. In a previous life all that was true but he was a better writer living in, let’s say, Paris. His writing has shown up in about thirty places including Flash, Compose, Gravel, Referential, Texas Review, North Dakota Quarterly, and the Hollins Critic.