Failing, Creatively

There are three little words that I have been longing to say for months, years, possibly my entire life. Simple, common, yet transformative words. Words that can make one vulnerable to heartbreak, rejection, and annoying questions. And, no, it's not what you think. Those three little words are:

I'm a writer.

Okay, so this may not seem vulnerable on the surface. However, for a perfectionist whose sense of self-worth very much stems from people expressing pride in my academic achievements and tangible life milestones, this is actually a pretty big deal.

Nothing has ever captivated my attention more than a good story, no matter whether it is presented in the form of a song, film, video game, or book. As a child, I once participated in a library-sponsored summer reading competition and read so many books that the librarian never gave me my prize because she was convinced I had somehow lied about my check-out history (I hadn't) or that my mom had read them all to me (she hadn't). I even tried my hand at writing early in life, and I won a school award in second grade for one of my stories. I think I still have the trophy somewhere. It was always my most prized award, precious to me among various certificates and medals for various academic and sports achievements.

Despite this love for absorbing and sharing stories, I pursued other, more "practical" skills as I continued my education. As other "talented and gifted" kids of the 90s and 2000s can probably tell you, there is a strange, specific kind of anxiety that follows you once you become the type of student that teachers identify as one who can be relied upon to have done the reading or know the answers. It becomes unacceptable not to know something. Who wants to disappoint a teacher, a coach, a mentor? Being academically reliable becomes your identity, if you're not careful. And despite my inherent risk-aversion with most things in life, I was not careful with this identify. My happiness derived almost entirely from academic praise and hearing that I had all the makings of a promising (insert your choice of a practical profession that has impressive ramifications on society here).

Now, at age 30, I can't recall any of those comments from teachers, peers, or mentors. I can't remember any specific compliments or career advice--with one exception. I can still see the handwriting of my 9th grade English teacher's written comments on one of my first papers, a personal essay. I can still feel the spark that he lit all those years ago, as he gifted me cherished words: "You could write a great novel someday." The warmth and excitement that comment instilled in me really should have been a clue about my calling. What can I say? Kids are, inherently, a little stupid.

Being studious became my entire identify.

Despite this incredibly validating comment, by the time I went off to college, I had been scared away from pursuing anything creative. I heard an endless string of "starving artist" stories and comments of "what a waste of your research talents" whenever I would express that I was considering a career in creative writing. Plus, this was the time of broader discussions around the fading importance of the humanities in a burgeoning technological society. Ironic, to hear humans discuss how the humanities were becoming obsolete for humanity. I held strongly to the opinion that the study and practice of art, language, philosophy, and history are crucial for a functioning society. If anything, I feel more strongly about this in 2025 than ever, but I cannot deny that these discussions nevertheless had an influence the way I would view myself as a "useful" member of society. The arts, I decided, were for others to figure out.

All of this is not to say that I regret my path thus far; if anything, I think I found a good career that allowed me to use my writing and storytelling skills in ways that the public might call "traditionally productive" for society. My education in economics and policy analysis made me a more responsible citizen and consumer of the news. My time as a Peace Corps volunteer was instrumental to my ability to form compassion and community as I became an independent adult. My job in health policy was fulfilling, and I was pretty good at it, if I do say so myself. Even so, I still heard a tiny voice in the back of my head wondering if I could be a novelist.

I tried to subtly answer that question with a little test. Over the past year, I wrote for fun after my day job of policy research. Much to my annoyance, I found that nothing else allowed me to feel so truly myself--for better or worse--than when I had uninterrupted time to write creatively. This annoyance stemmed from the fact that I then had to deal with what those feelings meant. Even my therapist mentioned that my eyes lit up in a way she had never seen before when I brought up that I was writing again.

I didn't know what to do with this knowledge other than I always do--dive into research. Once a nerd, always a nerd. I started to subscribe to YouTube accounts and Substacks dedicated to sharing writing tips. I studied different writing styles and checked out books about publishing. Then, at the beginning of 2025, my partner received a wonderful job offer in another state. As we planned for our big move, I began to wonder: is this the time to give full-time writing an earnest chance? I could at least try it for a few months and determine whether I have the discipline to write without teachers to be disappointed in me, or a boss to keep me on track. Perhaps I owed it to myself to try.

Nevertheless, the thought of not having a formal job still frightened me. What would people think? What if they all thought I was "wasting" my talents? Then, the morning after I finished reading On Writing by Stephen King, I learned that I was not going to be able to remotely keep my position. I had to make a change, either way. I have never been one for believing that the universe sends signs, but it was a very tempting notion to believe in that moment.

The universe had to get a little literal with me.

I knew that I may never get a better opportunity to pursue the craft with respect to timing, financial and personal security (which I am very privileged to have right now), or whatever excuse I could possibly come up with to revert to my risk-averse nature. But this alone was not enough to take the plunge. What eventually helped me make up my mind was thinking about failure. Facing it. Defining it.

If I spent a few months writing and found that I need the structure that formal employment involves is that a failure? Hardly; it is always useful to know more about what helps me focus.

If I write but never get published, would that a failure? No; plenty of stories never make it past the drafting stage. I write because I love creating and sharing stories.

If I try writing full-time but then decide to continue on an academic career trajectory, would that be a failure to myself and my desires? Not necessarily; as I acknowledged, I liked my job, and I had a talent for it.

So, then, what would truly make me feel like I have failed myself?

Not trying.

So, friends, here I am, metaphorically standing in front of you and saying for the first time: I'm a writer. Even if it doesn't end up being my long-term profession, I will always write. Therefore, I am a writer. These days I explore the coffee shops and libraries in my new city and hunker down, typing and scribbling for hours on end. I practice every day, and I'm slowly finding and finessing my style. And I am so happy.

No, I don't have anything published. No, I haven't finished a novel. No, I'm not going to tell you what it is about... yet. I just want to write. Part of the impetus for creating this website and starting this blog is to create accountability for myself. This is why you will find my works in progress on my main page. I will update the percentage of the novel draft that I have completed based on my anticipated word count. I am still shaping my vision for the blog. Perhaps I will focus on writing updates, life musings, or even the occasional policy deep dive, if there is an appetite for that. I would love to hear your thoughts.

Of course, I cannot guarantee that anything will be published, traditionally or otherwise. I cannot guarantee that this will work as a long-term career. I cannot even guarantee that this entire experiment won't make sick of writing. Though, I doubt that is possible. What I can guarantee is that I will fail in many ways. I've already written stories I now hate, lost short story competitions, and missed some of my self-imposed deadlines. However, simply because I am writing, practicing, trying, I will not fail myself.