Writers Write, Right?

I have so much respect for those writers who hash out verses daily, extrapolating at the crack of dawn, whether for the sake of money and fame or altruistically to connect their art and soul with the collective conscious, they persist in having their voices heard. I'm not that type of writer. This has bothered me since I was quite young.

Nonetheless, I began my writing career at 15, publishing my first piece in The San Jose Mercury News, a paper made famous through the reporting of Gary Webb. Mr. Webb cracked the code on the CIA Iran Contra Crack Cocaine connection. His investigation uncovered that The CIA flooded black communities with drugs in the late 1980's in his news series, "Dark Alliance." I actually invited Mr. Webb down to San Francisco from San Jose to discuss "Dark Alliance" with a group of young writers after the Merc published his series. He was the real deal.

 

Webb told us then in our meeting that when he spoke to people who lived there in south-central L.A. he was shocked by what he discovered. Webb reported that residents of these but communities in Los Angeles had come across abandoned train cars on various local train tracks full of loaded arms. According to sources, these weapons were dropped off by the government in an undercover operation to arm local gangs for hot wars between rival groups and to sabotage the advances made by the black community during the Black Power Era of the late 1960s 70s. He was a true newsman, who many believe did not commit suicide, as was reported, but was murdered with two shots to the back of his skull. The recent Hollywood film, "Kill The Messenger" chronicles Webb's journey of working through the journalistic scoop of the century. He was the type of writer I aspired to be-- one who could transform hearts, minds and public policy.

It wasn't long before my work appeared in major newspapers around the country. The devil of doubt on my right shoulder was eclipsed by the angel of productivity on the left. By 21, I was head deep in living a public life. There was nary a topic in my life that was not up for public consumption by me.

          

My identity was my writing career. I breathed it in my nose and tasted it on my palate regularly. It won me favor and critics and it paid the bills. I thought I'd conquered that devil. As it turned out, that creature was merely in a slumber.

By 26, I was struggling with a chronic illness that left me tired and shamed. At that point I felt I had to walk away from writing, my identity, because I could no longer put myself out on a limb and present myself to the world in all my vulnerability as a public person.

After being tagged "anti-Semitic" once I published a piece critiquing Steven Spielberg's look at American slavery and African resistance in his 1997 film, "Amistad," coupled with some erratic behavior of my own I was essentially blacklisted from publishing in the Bay Area. I was too tired to care at the time it all went down and the phone stopped ringing. I craved privacy and space to tend to my wounds. I didn't want to articulate the contents of my mind to everyone I knew and strangers alike because, frankly, it became too hard. There were younger, hungrier Ivy League-educated writers waiting to take my place in a San Francisco second and, in my hazy Bay fog state, I gave my desk up practically on a silver platter.

Fast forward 15 years and I've worn a few hats. I've experienced several identities, including common law wife, fashion associate, personal assistant, dental professional; they've all provided me with what writing couldn't-- privacy. I've also taken notes, working these gigs as an undercover journalist. The jobs themselves all left me with a void because the irony is that the writer in me desires to plug-in in a way that no other of my identities can ever fulfill.

For me, writing has never been about fame and fortune, although fortune would be fantastic. I've turned down offers to be on national television because I wasn't comfortable with the pace and the forum. For me, it's been about the work. It's been about honing my art to the level where the audience feels something, thinks something new, that they can relate to in a visceral way.

So, writers write, right? No, not always. Not me. If the vibe isn't there, I can't get in my zone for weeks, sometimes longer. I don't want to force the process. At points, it becomes about either racking my mind to create the perfect piece on every hot topic or remaining sane. I have to choose sanity.

I don't always want to share my thoughts because I need or want them for myself. Plus, I'm at a place where I want to write about what I want to, not what some publisher thinks sells. In my art, my integrity has to come before what's hot. I marvel at the lengths writers go to be prolific, spinning dribble for dollars. Today we have been told to brand ourselves to get anywhere in the era of social media. I can't knock their hustle. Everyone's got to eat.

I don't desire to offer myself up that way. I've already proven to myself  that I am capable of human connection. Whether I write The Great American Novel or Memoir or not, I know I am (and always will be) a writer.