What Right Do I Have To Write?

Growing up, I was proud of two things. One, my unnaturally tall stature, not only amongst Filipino women, but most women—my ‘cousins’ don’t call me Chewy anymore, but at nearly six feet tall, I do appear amazonian next to them. And two, my writer’s thumb.

If you’re a writer, you probably know what I’m talking about—that lovely bit of tough flesh at the base of your thumb or maybe on the side of your middle finger from doing battle with the blank page, born of late night binge writing sessions.

In elementary school I’d admire my writer’s thumb, run my fingers back and forth across the hardened skin, unsure why I felt such pride in its existence. At the end of each summer vacation, I’d search for my callus, and grimace upon finding that it had shrunk in size, having neglected my Ticonderoga 2 for games of tag and sunshine. And returning to school, I’d hoorah the return of my callus with no less than a mental ticker tape parade. I didn’t need a career day to tell me who I was supposed to be. I spent all my free time locked in my room scribbling in notebooks, writing funny little rhymes and stories. It’s no wonder my callus set up permanent residence.

My writer’s thumb assured me in a whisper: You are a writer.

It was a glorious time.

But, like many writers, insecurity got the better of me, and I forgot about my thumb. After all, what right do I have to write? Of places I’ve never been? People I’ve never known? Emotions I’ve never felt? What right have I to dream into existence? To make something of nothing? What right have I to be a teller stories—a teller of dreams?

I came up with the wrong answer.

To be a writer, I had to be someone.

Oh but why, I asked, why couldn’t I be the victim of some heinous crime instead of the well rounded daughter of two happily married parents? Why couldn’t I live the glamorous life of a celebrity or travel some exotic location? Why couldn’t I be some cracked out drug addict or alcoholic?

Then, I would have the right to write.

Well, if I couldn’t be someone, I could at least focus on looking like a writer. I read articles about getting published. I attended awful poetry slams. I focused on building my platform, all the time, my thumb saying, ‘What about me?’ and getting smaller, and smaller, and smaller.

I even started a local writing club. It had ten members, including myself, but three only ever showed up to the actual workshops. One of them, a woman, asked to meet with me at a local bookstore. For the sake of convenience, we’ll address her as Crazy Lady (CL). The following is an excerpt from our conversation:

CL: I have this really great idea for a book.

ME: (Aside) Oh God.

CL: I know it would be a best seller. And on Oprah’s Book Club. It could easily be made into a movie.

ME: Maybe I could take a look at what you’ve written and give you some feedback.

CL: Oh, I haven’t started it yet—

ME: (Aside) Oh God.

CL: —but I know it would be a bestseller.

ME: What do you write?

CL: I actually don’t write much—

ME (Aside) Oh God.

CL: —people are always complimenting me on things I do write though.

ME: Like what?

CL: Oh, you know. Cards, things like that. So, how can I go about getting published? How can I find an agent?

I try to explain to her that the purpose of our club is to focus on the craft of writing and workshopping. She ignores me and starts to outline the tragedies of her life: murder, mayhem, etc. and how her history has the makings for a bestseller.

I sit there listening, not listening, a little bit offended and wondering—why is she trying to sell a book she hasn’t written? And more importantly, why does she have the right to write? For all purposes, this woman, according to my answer, had the right to write. She certainly had an addiction to crazy. But no, I decide, this woman does not have the right to write. Why?

Because she does not write.

When she finishes her little therapy session, I recommend that she devote some time to writing and that when she was ready, I would be there to workshop it for her.

Shortly after my little writer’s club folded, I decided to take my own advice and get back to being a writer—by making writing my priority. I went to graduate school to better my craft. I met dedicated writers and studied the greats. I buried myself in writing and became.

I still have a long list of writing priorities that make me look like a writer. I read the right magazines. Attend local literary events—and the occasional poetry sham can be good for the soul. I’ve even put thought into platform building. Today, I am the proud owner of a writer’s thumb, and my foremost writing priorities remain simple. 1) To write. 2) To read amazing writing. 3) To write more. Now, I speak with my thumb:

Am I the victim of some heinous experience? Not that I’m aware of.

Do I live in an exotic location? A single story suburban tract home.

Am I an addict? Of cookies.

Am I famous? Not yet.

What right do I have to write?

Because I write.