fwriction

A friend of mine, Bill Loehfelm, gave me some advice recently, regarding writing and our ethic as writers:

“Rule #1: Get back to work…I’m not talking about grading papers, man! I’m talking about writing. That’s work. Everything else is just a job.”

As I’ve been sorting through piles of student work, pointing out comma splices and agreement issues and writing Show, Don’t Tell more times that I care to count, I wonder about this advice. Is writing the only real work, for me? Is teaching just a job? In an effort to excel in both capacities, I find it difficult to gauge the switch, when my mind should, on a dime, turn from teacher to writer, and back again.

The more I sit on it, the longer I reflect on my goals, one thing remains true: I want both. I want to be brilliant at both. Currently, I’m teaching students at three different levels—middle school, high school, and adult creative writing students; I find each rewarding in their own ways, though none, not even combined, are enough to pay the bills. (And, the situation doesn’t appear to be getting better, according to NYT and NY1 stories.) My ultimate goal is to teach at the college level, but I find that many require a published book (or extensive record of publication) to even have your vita considered. As I’m holding down three to four teaching jobs, when do I write? I know many others before me have encountered and conquered these issues, but that doesn’t make them any less real or difficult for me. When established writers tell me to just focus on my writing, I understand where they are coming from, but it’s an unrealistic goal, at least for me. I don’t teach just to make money because, frankly, I would make more as a Starbucks barista (a job I held while completing my MA). I teach because I love it, and the thought of giving that up is as difficult as imagining a time when I won’t be writing.

Writing, though, remains as necessary a part of my makeup as plasma. I write on the R train, using my iPhone, heading to and from Bay Ridge, because lately, it’s the only time I have for myself. I’m okay with that, for now. And even when I finish the day having completed only a sentence, or edited parts of sentences, I’m reminded of what Rick Moody wrote in his foreword to Amy Hempel’s The Collected Stories: “It’s all about the sentences.” Then, I feel pretty damn good.