Slow and steady
On my writing life
I’m pretty sure every working writer has more or less the same origin story, about how they’ve always known they’ve wanted to be a writer ever since they were little. For me, I have a version of this story about developing a writing practice through my third-grade teacher in Palo Alto who incorporated free-writing into our lessons once a day. If we were stuck, she would have us copy a page from a random page in the encyclopedia and see if it led anywhere more original and creative. In middle school, I carried a notebook with me everywhere I went, writing bad poems and detailing every dream, however nonsensical.
From a more practical point of view, I started writing in earnest in 2011 when I enrolled in an MFA program in fiction. In my mind, I was there precisely because I didn’t know how to write. I read something like three novels a week, to catch up with my colleagues who had majored in literature. I drank too many energy drinks. I rarely slept. I was physically miserable and intellectually ecstatic at the same time. I made lifelong friends. I wrote many, many pages that ended up in the trash.
To help pay for my tuition, I began teaching writing to college students the following year in 2012, all the while feeling like a complete fraud on the inside. Who was I to judge good writing, when I was still figuring that out for myself?
I held other jobs, moved cities, and started teaching writing again in 2018, feeling a little more confident and comfortable speaking to a roomful of people. Still, I never liked to admit that I aspired to become a writer. I told people I was a writing teacher and left it at that.
I had a baby. The pandemic happened. I had another baby. My mother died.
Weirdly enough, it was this combination of motherhood and grief that propelled me into writing more than I ever had, and to get me to a point in life where I’m comfortable identifying myself as a writer, even though I have yet to publish my own book—something I had previously assumed was a necessity to call oneself a “real writer.” I didn’t (and don’t) write everyday, and I still don’t have a consistent writing practice just because consistency is never promised in a life as a mother of two children under 5. But I am proud to have written when I could, and to have published an essay, story, or book review on an average of once a month.
Back when I was an MFA student, I had this fantastical idea that I would finish my novel manuscript by the end of the program, immediately sign a contract with a literary agent, and publish my book that would pay me enough to not need another job. Some writers from my program did just that, and when that didn’t happen for me, there was a real part of me that felt like a failure.
Every time I felt down about this, it was my partner Jin who reassured me that I was still very much a writer. Slow and steady, he always said.
Over the last 10 years, I wrote three novel manuscripts, two of which are shelved forever and one that I hope will become a real book soon. I have no idea if this book is any good, and I’m already daydreaming about my next one. I’m still figuring out what kind of writer I am. I still agonize and cry to Jin about all of my doubts. Maybe I haven’t grown so much after all. The thing that has helped, though, is embracing the slow and steady pace in my writing career. Hopefully, by the time I write another cheesy and embarrassing reflection like this in the future, I’ll be able to look back and see my progress as something steady—even if it has felt slow in the moment.
Speaking of slow and steady victories, here are a couple fiction pieces I published in the last few months, with one that began 5 years ago:
The Mold, published on The Margins, a publication of the Asian American Writers Workshop. This is a short story that’s also an excerpt from my novel-in-progress about a Japanese woman who moves from New York to Nashville while working through grief & motherhood.
Still, published on Vol. 1 Brooklyn. A short story that started with scribbles I jotted down in 2017 when I still lived in New York! The story came to life after I saw a dance performance at OZ Arts Nashville (thank you OZ and The Porch for the invitation). It’s about a woman trying to find stillness in a noisy world.
If you’re in Nashville this December, I encourage you to attend one of these *free* concerts by the Nashville Philharmonic Orchestra, an all-volunteer community orchestra that’s dear to my heart. Come listen to classic holiday tunes, a bit of John Williams, and powerful symphonies by Gabriela Lena Frank and William Grant Still.
TOMORROW! Tuesday, December 13, 7:30 p.m. at Plaza Mariachi (I’ll be there!)
Sunday, December 18, 7:00 p.m. at First Apostolic Church
Join me on Zoom on February 7, 2023 for another round of Reading Between the Lines with JAST (Japan-America Society of Tennessee). I’ll share excerpts from a wonderfully quirky set of short stories, Where the Wild Ladies Are by Aoko Matsuda, translated by Polly Barton. The stories are inspired by real Japanese folktales, but told through a modern, feminist lens. The discussions are designed for anyone who may or may not have finished reading the book. Whatever your background, my hope is that you’ll come away with a better understanding of Japanese folktales as well as a new awareness of Japanese authors you may have never heard of. Buy a copy at Parnassus to get a special book-club discount!
