Pep Talk

"What do you do?"

A portrait of the artist as a young puppet.

Hi, Friend.

Maybe this has happened to you. You meet someone new—at a concert, a graduation party, or school pickup—and they ask, “What do you do?”

For years I wasn’t sure how to answer, at least not succinctly. I wrote poems. I changed diapers. I edited books. I cooked meals. I taught creative writing workshops. I did loads and loads of laundry. Some of it paid, and some of it didn't, but all of it was what I did.

When people ask what you do, I think they’re asking about more than your profession. They’re trying to get at something essential about you: how you spend your days, what matters to you, who you are.

How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives. —Annie Dillard

Now I say, “I’m a poet.” Or I say, “I’m a writer.” I could also tell them I’m an educator, an editor, a mother. All of this is my work. And of course, like you, I do—and am—many things that are not my work. I’m a music-lover and a bookworm. A daughter, a sister, a friend. I’m the kind of neighbor who brings you homemade cookies or kale pesto. I’m a vegetarian. A Gen-Xer. An Aquarius, an INFJ, an Enneagram 4 (don’t forget the 3 wing).

When people ask, “When did you start writing poems?” I have a clear answer: age thirteen. But if someone asked, “When did you feel like you could claim the identify of poet?” my answer would not be so clear. Honestly? More than twenty-five years after writing my first poem.

What does it mean—what does it take—to be a writer? To be able to claim that identity?

“I’ll feel like a poet when I start to publish poems in journals.”

“I’ll feel like a writer when my first book comes out.”

“I’ll feel like a writer when I make enough money from my writing to pay my bills.”

You think “If I get X” or “If Y happens” then you’ll finally feel like a real writer. There’s a hint of the Pinocchio tale here. That’s imposter syndrome at work, and it leaves a kind of stain that’s hard to scrub out. You might think it would vanish when you publish a book, win a prize, or read a generous review of your work. You’d be wrong. It’s something that many writers and artists live with—the fear that we aren’t that talented after all, or that any success we’ve had has a been a fluke and will end at any moment. What if that last poem was, indeed, your last poem?

That voice is one we must work to quiet. The best way I’ve found to quiet it? Keep writing. Prove it wrong.

Confession: I cringe at the adjective aspiring. I think, if you write poems, you’re a poet. You may not be a published poet, or a well-known poet, or a poet who makes a living from writing, but you’re a poet. If you garden, you’re a gardener—not an aspiring gardener. You are someone who puts your hands in the earth, who plants and harvests. You may not be a gardener professionally, but the act is one you can claim.

The writing life is one with many paths. There’s no one way. I wish I’d thought more about this when I was starting out; it would have relieved a lot of pressure. And I wish I had realized how many writers—most of us!—have jobs outside of writing books. We’re teachers, editors, arts administrators, and technical writers. We’re therapists, receptionists, and childcare providers. We’re doctors, yoga teachers, and small business owners. 

When I say, “I’m a writer,” I’m telling you about more than what I do for a living. I’m telling you who I am.

The fact that you’re here, reading these words right now, tells me something about who you are: someone who loves language. Maybe you write poetry, fiction, or nonfiction, too. Maybe you teach. Maybe you’re a voracious reader. Whatever your relationship to words, I suspect you believe in their power.

These days I try not to ask people what they do, at least not immediately. How people pay their bills is usually not the most interesting thing about them, and it doesn't tell me much about how we might connect. Why not ask, “What lights you up?” Or, “What’s the best part of your life right now?”

If someone asked me these questions, I’d talk about my kids and the fun summer we’re enjoying in our close-knit neighborhood. I’d talk about my next book, due out next year, and the collection of poems I’m working on. I’d talk about the roadtrip I’m taking with my whole family soon, and the 100th birthday party I’m planning for my beloved money pit of a house in 2025. I’d probably talk about the concerts I’m looking forward to this year, and the travel I have planned, and the books I’m reading.

How would you answer these questions?

Love,
Maggie