i'm not a cool writer. i'm a serious writer.

from the "depressed writer" to the "serious writer": how fabricated writing identities stop us from being authentic in our craft

Aug 19, 2024

one of my favorite pieces on substack is a post written by my friend

called “i’m not a regular writer. i’m a cool writer.” she focuses compellingly on our generation’s romanticization of mental illness, and she connects that unfortunate epidemic with the image we have of ourselves as writers, or the beliefs which we hold about “what it takes” to be a successful writer. i would characterize the “writer identity” which amanda explores in her piece as the “depressed writer.”

more writing tips: 10 tactics for avoiding writer’s block

amanda convincingly criticizes the idea that you have to be seriously depressed and basically miserable to create great art. amanda calls herself the “cool writer” (and she is!!!), but many out there think the “cool writer” is the “depressed writer” wallowing in sadness that finds essentially no relief. the writers, musicians, and painters who drink or drug themselves to death are glamorized not only for their art but also for their depression, which is seen as the source of that art. we idealize the misery of these people, we grasp for some of that sadness in ourselves, and we hope to be mentally ill so that we can be artists. if we are actually mentally ill, we cling to that illness in the false belief that sickness is what fuels us and drives us toward artistic greatness.

i have definitely been there: that point where true mental illness becomes so all-consuming and the hope of escape seems so remote. it’s easy to cling to that mental illness as a romanticized identity, always with you, almost like a familiar: something that makes you special, even magical. you try to think of your sadness as a friend and an asset. that’s why for me these two phoebe lyrics always hit so fucking hard:

Jesus Christ, I'm so blue all the time
And that's just how I feel
Always have and I always will
I always have and always will (phoebe bridgers, “funeral”)

and:

I've got a good feeling
It doesn't happen very often (phoebe bridgers, “demi moore”)

a friend once told me she thought many men liked phoebe bridgers because they thought she was the “only one who understands how fucked up they are internally.” at the time i still believed i was a cis man, and i asked her hopefully, “do you think i’m uniquely fucked up internally?” it wasn’t that i wanted phoebe to see how fucked up i was; it was that i was fucked up internally, and the aesthetic of my fucked-upness appealed to me. if there’s nothing you can do about it, why not harness it?

but this is nothing more than a coping mechanism leading to nothing good.

as amanda writes,

“There are many senses of self and identities to choose from on the internet, especially in your formative years, being ‘depressive’ one of them. And that’s the way it always has been. But it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t make me fucking livid. It makes me mad because it was a trap i fell into. And i, of course, wish i never did. I miss volleyball and dancing, even though i sucked at both. I miss acting the age i actually am! And it makes me so sad to see people are losing their senses of self by wearing what x and y are wearing, eating what they’re eating and even feeling what they’re feeling. Real art comes from the heart, as real intelligence comes from simplicity. You don’t have to have the most complex, intricate feelings in order to be the writer you have always wanted to be. I would like to see a writer that mirrors other person’s pain on their writings with the entire purpose to make that person feel seen, and reach out for help.
…….
So dear teen reader, you know that i’m not a regular writer, i’m a cool writer (that’s a mean girls reference), so listen to me: Take your goddamn meds. You don’t write better without them. I’ve been there. Please take my word.”

god i fucking love that: “real intelligences comes from simplicity”

framable no? you must read the full piece.

anyway, there’s so much truth in this extract. we get this idea that we need to have a certain set of feelings with a certain level of complexity to be “artists,” and we try and manufacture this “feeling complex” in ourselves. we lose our sense of self as we try to emulate our heroes not only in terms of our outward appearance but even in terms of our most sacred space: our inner life. as amanda points out, this goes beyond the tendency to emulate our idols’ depression (clothes, food, eating disorders, self-harm, self-sabotage, etc).

but when we force ourselves to twist our inner life into a reflection of an outward construct that itself has no clear reality, we lose ourselves. and when we lose ourselves, we lose the ability to be authentic.

we think we need to be vulnerable. and naturally we also associated the vulnerable with the embarrassing, the things which will expose us to the world, and we wonder: do i have anything sad enough about myself to be vulnerable about? but real vulnerability is more expansive than this, and we can also be vulnerable without being authentic. we can be selectively vulnerable, performatively vulnerable, deceptively vulnerable, picking and choosing strikingly vulnerable details from reality and then mixing them up into an inauthentic, forced, and ultimately fabricated work. the reader senses that!

that’s why amanda includes a call to genuine authenticity:

“Anyway, if you really want to be a writer like auntie here, you have to start somewhere. Write about your own experiences!
Even though you may think they’re not special because you’re not ‘sad’ or ‘broken’, i really think they are. Yes, people relate to pain and suffering but you don’t have to induce yourself to feel something you actually don’t feel! Some of you are really talented painters and musicians, so writing about that wouldn’t be so bad. Write about your real feelings or your real experiences. (Please tag me if you do, I’d really like to read it)!”

so good. again, go read the whole piece!

it’s useful to think about why some cling to this “depressed artist” identity so that we can understand why we also cling to others, because there are many identities which hold us captive, as the man identity once held me captive and prevented me from being authentic. these fabricated identities, which we adopt from the external world and force upon ourselves because we don’t believe in our true selves, become obstacles to our writing by fundamentally hindering our ability to be authentic. we deliberately obscure ourselves in the name of being a certain type of writer: but we will never achieve the sense that we really are that “type of writer.” why? because that type of writer is something we have made up in our minds to torture ourselves.

there is another constructed identity here on substack: an even vaguer one than the “depressed writer.” this is the made up concept of the “real writer,” which i find more useful to refer to from now on as the “serious writer”

i am using the label “serious writer” because i think that part of wanting to be a “real writer” is wanting to be “taken seriously” by the world as a writer

but what is the “serious writer”? no one really knows. but i have seen a few posts on my feed that i do feel shed light on the meaning of this nebulous concept. personally i think what we have to think about is: what does it mean to be “taken seriously,” or to be able to “take ourselves seriously,” as writers? we want to be able to call ourselves “writers" in a serious way, but we are unsure about doing so. and why wouldn’t we be? there have been pieces ridiculing people who write for daring to call themselves “writers.”

there are many posts about the chronically agonizing question of “am i a writer,” but there was one genre which stuck out to me most in terms of the “serious writer.” several writers have complained that their “audience” is “only writers.” they wanted “readers” too. “i can’t help but feel,” one wrote, “that i am only attracting other writers as my readers.” or, “i love networking with other writers, but what about reaching readers?”

i do understand where this comes from! yes, i get excited when “complete strangers” subscribe to my blog. yes, i get excited when people who don’t really read very often message me to tell me they loved my writing and read the whole post! of course i do!

but i have truly appreciated the connections which having writers as readers is nurturing for me. this post would not even exist if amanda and i did not read each other’s stuff and talk with one another. i have several posts that would not exist at all if it weren’t for inspiration from other writers - about romance novels, about failed male friendships, about why i love my haim crocs so much. yes, these are authentically me, but it’s thanks to having other writers as readers that i am able to think more deeply about my own experiences and express them in a more compelling way!

this is only one part of why i love poking around my readers’ substacks, reading their posts, and even rounding their writing up for my weekly reading suggestions! and not just my subscribers’ writing: i love wandering around substack and stumbling across (this one i really like; check it out!!!).

and it’s so interesting to have like-minded people read my stuff, then go read their stuff, and then build on one another’s thoughts feelings experiences!

writing isn’t about being serious. writing is about many things, and one thing i’ve come to truly appreciate is that writing is about connection. so just know, i love having writers as readers.

but the craving for “readers who aren’t writers” is a strange one to me for many other reasons. what does this mean, readers who aren’t writers? are your readers allowed to journal? are your readers allowed to have blogs of their own? can they write book reviews at least? diary entries? “readers who aren’t writers” contains within it the absurd concept of “writer” itself, the definition of which is a source of constant agony. because of this the yearning for “readers who aren’t writers” is a doubly absurd concept: the concept itself is defined by another concept which society struggles to define and which causes constant internal conflict for… oh yes: writers.

the “writer” now also agonizes over whether they are “a real writer” based on the question of whether or not their “readers are also writers.” this is a deep, dark vortex: this is an abyss. this can cripple you like any other fake identity can cripple you.

i think the “serious writer” concept is connected to the concepts of “glory” “fame” and “renown.” the assembling of millions of readers who don’t write, who simply read your words and wish they had written your words themselves, appears before certain writers as the ultimate achievement. at its worst, this mindset is almost a reverse parasocialism: the celebrity wants their fans to feel a sense of worship for them. the act of “writing” is twisted by the desire to use writing merely as a tool for glory.

i know of at least one writer who agonized himself over this objective. his name was f. scott fitzgerald, and he spent much of his life struggling with alcoholism and depression. despite all the books he had written and the renown he did achieve in his lifetime, fitzgerald was obsessed with being celebrated; he sunk into deep depression when the fame of his “boom years” faded away. he was bitter that others were winning more renown than he. “i want to be extravagently admired again,” he said.

from the beginning, fitzgerald’s writing career was characterized by a need for the approval of others. his wife only agreed to marry him if he was able to publish a book, and after a period of literary success, what fame he had achieved quickly dissipated. an interesting article characterizes fitzgerald’s final years in this way:

“Fitzgerald’s later books, Tender is the Night and The Beautiful and the Damned, show us what happens when the dream is over, when the cold indifference of reality comes crashing down. Like the end of the roaring twenties, Fitzgerald’s own boom years ended in misery and loneliness. Estranged from his wife and friends, he died in the apartment of his then-mistress, Sheilah Graham, trying and failing to make a new life for himself in Hollywood. He would never again capture that early feeling of success.
The most heartbreaking part of Fitzgerald’s story is this moment. The moment when you realize that the past is never coming back. That the old you is gone and died away. That you must become someone new to survive in this new age, and worse still, that you might not be up for the challenge.”

even the recognition we achieve will ultimately fade away, leaving us with the truth of our own isolated reality. after conquering what he thought to be the entire world, alexander the great drank himself to death at the age of 33. he was so paranoid about maintaining his glory that he had his closest friends murdered. was he happy?

i am reminded here of a character from never have i ever: eleanor’s mom. eleanor’s mom is almost never around. she is obsessed with pursuing her failed acting career. constantly she asserts that she is one step away from the coveted “big break.” she skips important moments in her daughters life so he can audition for commercials. it’s when eleanor, also consumed by dreams of acting, sits down beside her mom at an audition for the same spot in the same commercial that eleanor realizes the road she will go down if she sacrifices everything for the sake of fame. it is not acting which eleanor’s mother loves, and eleanor sees this in that moment. if it was acting she loved, she would join the local theater and act. what she craves, really, is glory.

there’s no such thing as a “serious writer” or a “real writer.” there are people writing. to complain about someone who is writing calling themselves a “writer” is often to reveal one’s own insecurities about the agonizing abstractness of the concept itself. not always: i don’t pretend to know internal motivations with certainty, and there are plenty of incredibly talented writers who are saying these things. not always. but often.

there’s no point in thinking so much about these questions. i always remember what antony says to benedict in bridgerton. “if you want to paint, brother, paint.”

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