The question is asked, internally at first, then externally, usually in response to some advice or anecdote about writing. One of the most common is “write every day” which gets responses about how that isn’t possible for everyone and the discussion moves away from the purpose of “write everyday” to something about “am I a real writer”— 

People seeking validation, but in the form of pushing against gatekeeping. But the gatekeeper here is, of course, ourselves. 

I’ve been writing since I was very young, telling stories longer. Writing poetry since I was 16, first published at 19. I started writing horror short stories when I was 22 and was first published (on horrorfind.com) at 23. I started my first novel when I was 17. I wanted to write epic multi-volume fantasy. 

Am I a real writer? I’ve not completed a story in over a year, and have only composed a handful of poems worth reading in the same time. I’ve got over a dozen half finished novel drafts on my computer archive, none of which are finished. 

I certainly don’t feel like a real writer no matter how I stack the statistics, the metrics, nothing I put together gets past the gatekeeper—me. 

I do write everyday, most every day, journal entries, sometimes little poems or scenes from stories. Writing everyday is about practice, it’s about using a skill so you get better at it. 

It is not about “real writer”–you can practice a sport everyday and not be a player. Writing everyday is just one of the things suggested because, statistically, you will get better the more you write. But, to push the sport metaphor, you still have to play the game. 

In this moment the game, for me, is finishing a thing, a collection of poems, a novel, a short story collection. The “game” itself isn’t so much publication, as it would be more commonly referred to, but instead bring to fruition a work of art. 

“Real writer” is a bad term. There is a difference between a published writer and an unpublished writer, but both are still writers. There is no marker or metric that defines ‘real.’ 

Then how do we, how do I, find validation? And for me the answer has always come to being read, which to do I would have to finish something. 

Are you a “real writer” if you write everyday? You tell me. What is it you are seeking? 

Because this is a journey, and no two people take the same path.

This was not a year for reading. By 26 December 2020 I had read one book.

One.

Granted, it was a great book, Mexican Gothic by Silvia Moreno-Garcia. It is a fantastic gothic horror book, and if it had been the only thing I read in 2020, it would have been a good reading year.

On the 26th, I decided I wanted to do a little better, so I picked up a book I had started in July, but only got about 40 pages in before life got in the way—The Night Tiger by Yangsze Choo, who I had discovered a few years ago with The Ghost Bride with a random, but successful Amazon recommendation. Both are historical novels in Malaysia, and both are fantastic reads.

And then on the night of the 30th, thought, why not one more? Why not. I picked up Black Sun bu Rebecca Roanhorse. Another great book, and a great way to see out the year.

As always, I read a lot of LampLight submissions, and can never discount the amount of work and emotional energy that goes into submissions. And I am always grateful for the writers who send me stories.

BRO!

For poetry, there is one shining ball of amazing from 2020, and that is the translation of Beowulf from Maria Dahvana Headley. It is fantastic, and so readable. I haven’t finished yet, but will do so tomorrow, bringing in the new year right.

Bro, tell me we still speak of kings!

TL;DR

Here’s what I read in 2020 and I recommend them all.

1. Mexican Gothic – Silvia Moreno-Garcia
2. The Night Tiger – Yangsze Choo
3. Black Sun – Rebecca Roanhorse
4. Beowulf – Maria Dahvana Headley

The tortured artist trope is one I don’t agree with. The idea is simple: with great pain comes great art.

The thing is this, we get better at what we practice. To take myself for example, I am good at writing post-break-up poems, because for a long time that is what I wrote.

The ‘tortured artist’ didn’t make those poems better—the artist did. I worked on them, over and over, crafting good, if not limited, poems. They were the ones I edited, the ones I work-shopped, the ones I gave at readings.

The pain provided influence, perhaps motivation. I used it as focal point to create.

But this created a new problem where I had to learn to write non-post-break-up poems, or even wider, non-personal-relationship poems—because that is was all I was practicing.

Practice makes permanent.

Coach

I played rugby for a half-minute (another post-break-up choice) and Coach would say to to us:

Practice makes permanent.

Didn’t he mean ‘perfect’? No. Perfect practice makes perfect. How you practice reflects on how you perform.

And ‘practice’ is something we do as writers. (Something I recommend doing consciously.)

When you only make art when you are in the dark places of life of it is going to be better than when you try elsewhere. You have to learn, to practice.

The thing is, the best poems I write are about breakup and heartache, not because of my pain, but because these are the ones I’ve written the most.

More practice = better art.

If I put the time into love poems or springtime poems that would be as good.

No, there is no special insight a tortured artist has, only focus that drives creation, specific creation. You can write, create, paint without the pain. You need practice.

Do you know how many happy horror writers I know? A lot. Because what we write doesn’t need to reflect on who we are when we write it.

Sure you pull from experience, but we are not bound to it. I don’t need to be going through a loss to write about loss.

And we shouldn’t think that either