The Expat Writer (or, I Am Not Hemingway)

Yesterday was Sunday.  At my parents' house in PA, this would probably mean a few hours of a CSI marathon, a couple of bottles of sweet wine, and a big pot of spaghetti for dinner, all shared with my sister & mom.  In Spokane, this might mean a $5 matinee at the AMC and all-day happy hour at Isabella's with Jess and Greg.

Yesterday's Sunday was like a summer Tuesday.  It didn't even have that weekendy, fuckaround feeling other Sundays have.  It was endless, stretching from morning all the way until I fell asleep to Monster House.  For most of the day, I read Borges in different areas of the house.  At one point, I bookmarked potential job postings that I figured I'd apply to later.  I watched some TV.  I played some cards.  And I started writing.

Here's the thing, though: this was a long-ass Sunday, with a few extra hours squeezed into it.  And I had had a brief visit from the Muse.  Instead of seizing those hours, pounding out a draft or half a draft or a half-assed draft, I sat on the roof to work on my tan.  On the blog for Willow Springs, the lit journal of Eastern Washington University, a friend and former classmate wrote about the difference between "writing" and "being a writer," as he saw it.  At first I agreed---I have published zero (0) stories/poems, and it's been months since I've written a new story.  How can I call myself a writer?  Scott, the blogger, says, "I occasionally find myself in situations where the word, writer, laps like acid reflux against the back of my throat."  I find myself doing the same---the word doesn't feel honest.  But it feels like it should be true, and the failure is mine for its untruth.  When I say I'm a writer, I think of how teenage Catholics must feel when the priest asks them if they've sinned and they've spent all morning in the church bathroom masturbating to fantasies of Sister Mary Rose.

Our former professor, Sam Ligon, countered that "It seems to me that if you’re writing, dedicating some big piece of yourself to that, sitting down and doing the work, then you’re a writer."

That's the issue for me.  I haven't been doing the work.  The cardinal sin of writers: Not Writing.  That's where the guilt comes in.  And I can't go to the nearest library and say twelve Hail Hemingways to find absolution.  I need to do the work to be worthy of the name.

Yesterday was Sunday, and I squandered the whole day.  I started a story, shit out about a page, and decided my time was better spent on the patio in the sun---the same thing I've been doing since July.  I've had this image of myself as an Expat Writer, especially since realizing I would only be here for a few months.  In 4 months, I could round out a collection of short stories.  I could be halfway through a novel.  That is, if I don't fuck around all the time.  Meanwhile:

Hail Ernest, full of subtext...

Also: here are some quotes from Hemi on writing.