Recognition vs. Accomplishment
What I keep trying to tell myself, a decade into my writing career
These days, I’ve been thinking a lot about the distinction between recognition and accomplishment. On the surface, it seems like I have gotten recognition for my writing, most recently the Southern Prize for Literary Arts. As happy and honored as I was, I still couldn’t shake the feeling that I was a fraud. My self-doubt remained. The voice in my head kept saying: I haven’t written enough. I’m still revising my novel manuscript. After all these years, I still struggle with writers’ block. My writing practice is not so much a practice, as it is something I do in concentrated spurts at irregular intervals.
It was Jin, my partner, who pointed out that I ought to focus more on my accomplishments. Things that nobody might know about other than myself, things I can still be proud of—if only I placed more value on them. Writing a chapter, even when the book itself is unfinished, is still an accomplishment. The way Jin sees it, even rejections are accomplishments, because it means I put myself out there and played with the odds.
As a writing teacher, I have often told my students to be proud of their writing, even if it’s a focused free-write that they jotted down over the course of 10 minutes. And yet I still find it hard to apply that same outlook on myself.
When I think about my last big accomplishments, they tend to be completely separate from my writing, whether it’s a community orchestra performance of Beethoven’s Ninth, or more recently, my journey with the electric bass.
I bought myself a Squire Precision Bass for my birthday on March 2023, and plucked it just a handful of times that year using some free tutorials on YouTube. Without a clear goal or anyone to play it with, the poor bass quietly collected dust in the corner of my office. Occasionally, someone would comment on it if they saw it in the corner of my video screen during a Zoom conference. When asked who my favorite bass player was, I couldn’t even come up with a single name.
It wasn’t until mid-August 2024 that I picked it up again, this time with purpose. One of our neighbors—a fellow mom of two boys—shared that she picked up the guitar as a new hobby, and we joked about getting together for a jam session. It felt jokey because we live in Nashville, a.k.a. Music City, and half the parents of our kids’ school are involved in the music business one way or another. We even know some neighbors who are professional touring musicians and songwriters. Who were we but a couple of complete amateurs?
Our first “jam session” was basically a playdate for our boys, with us moms playing instruments in the dining room. We played a few basic notes over “Psycho Killer” by Talking Heads, one of my favorite songs in general and a bass line that seemed within reach. We could hardly figure out the bridge (never mind the French lyrics), but we both agreed that we sounded better than we’d thought, especially for a first round.
Was it beginners’ luck? Or the fact that the stakes were so low to begin with, that any harmony we created ended up sounding amazing?
The fact was, we went beyond just talking and joking about it, to actually doing it. What we had done was an accomplishment, however small.
Gradually, we couldn’t help but dream: what if we invited more people and made this a proper band? What if we were all moms, and we could rehearse while the kids played? What if we put on a show? What if that show was on Halloween, right before we stepped out for Trick-or-Treating?
Text chains emerged, dates were set, and we added another mom to be a drummer (on a plastic bucket to start), and finally a vocalist, who happened to be a professional singer herself. Again: a tale as old as Music City.
I went about my daily routine with work emails, Zoom conferences, childcare duties, the laundry and dishes. But I could hear the bass lines more clearly from songs on the car radio. The fingers on my right hand plucked the air. When Molly, the guitarist, started taking lessons, I signed up for bass lessons at a local instrument shop. Every time I carried the bass on my back on the way to the lessons, I felt like I was cosplaying. I yearned for a stranger to see me from across the street and think of me as a real bassist, for a real band.
Eventually, we settled on a name: Mom Hair. Why? Because it made us laugh every time we said it. Our tag line: We jam when we can. Molly made us an Instagram account (where there are now photos and videos). We decided on a mishmash of four songs, including “Psycho Killer,” to perform for the kids and other neighbors.
By the time we did our mic checks (in our various Halloween costumes), my palms were sweaty and I berated myself for not practicing more leading up to this date. I was glad to be wearing sunglasses indoors, so that I could close my eyes during some difficult bass lines. Our kids (who had already listened to us rehearse so many times) roamed about the room, obviously bored and restless. But in the end, we were met with the warmest applause. A few neighborhood girls (who had dressed up like Taylor Swift) even got up on the microphone afterwards and continued the show with their impromptu singing.
For a moment, we were rock stars. Being in Mom Hair reminded me that doing is better than dreaming, even if isn’t perfect. And whatever recognitions I might continue to chase will continue to make me feel like an imposter, if I don’t also celebrate the tangible things I’ve accomplished—however small, local, and fleeting.
Thank you for reading! As free subscribers, you will continue to get essays and updates as usual. If you’d like to upgrade to becoming a paid subscriber, you will get early access to posts before these essays are released to the general list, and you can visit the full archive anytime. Additional perks include writing prompts, and lengthier reviews of movies, books, and music.
I was honored to be interviewed by Korby Lenker for his Morse Code Podcast, where we talked about the writing process, imposter syndrome, parenthood, and the art of journaling. His other guests include filmmakers, musicians, and writers. Korby was such a fantastic conversation partner—we could have easily talked for hours!
Back in September, I appeared on a panel for South Arts Fellows at the Mississippi Book Festival, and that discussion is now available on YouTube. The fellows represent nine states in the South: Alabama, Florida, Georgia, Kentucky, Louisiana, Mississippi, North Carolina, South Carolina, and Tennessee. I loved getting to know the other fellows, and I recommend checking out their writing.
If you’re in Nashville, I would love to see you at Crossing Paths, a special performance event featuring writers and a songwriter across generations, to benefit affinity group meetups at The Porch. Writers in their 20s and 30s will share pieces on what they would like to say to their older selves, while Writers Over 40 will share pieces reflecting on things they wish they could say to their younger selves. Free to register here, with a suggested $10 donation. I’ll be MC’ing—come say hi! If you’re unable to attend, please consider supporting at this link here.
