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Last night I went to a reading/Q&A session by an old writing teacher of mine. He's done a lot of talks like this lately because, oh, he won a Pulitzer for his first novel this year. This is totally surreal to me still, that one day he was another guy teaching a bunch of night-school wannabe fiction writers, and then he finally sold that novel that he'd told us had been sitting in a drawer for several years, and now suddenly he's a famous author. It's hard to imagine, not least because it's the EXACT dream that anyone who's ever aspired to be a writer has.

The talk was great -- he's an excellent talker, sometimes in class to the point where you wished he would stop rambling and say something concrete, but in class his ramblings were ALWAYS entertaining, hilarious, and studded with insights, and this was no different. While listening to him I felt like I was back in class again, and then I realized that there's no way I will ever take an Extension School fiction class with him ever again (if he did ever come back to teach one for a lark, it'd be full in .2 seconds), and that made me sad.

It's weird, I've been thinking about doing a certificate program for graphic design, and in fact I'm meeting with someone at the school tonight to discuss my application. I'm excited about the idea, ready to throw myself in and learn, while also scared that I won't have the creative ability.

But in a way, entering a program for graphic design represents a defeat for me. Ever since I was a kid, I've wanted to be a writer, and I've thought of myself as a writer. It's how I define myself. I've written stories since I could form letters with a pencil. I chose colleges to apply to based on whether or not they had a creative writing program, though I ultimately ended up not doing the program at my school because it conflicted with studying abroad. That didn't stop me from writing stories, though: sure, in college they were mostly Star Trek: TNG fanfiction, but I always had several going, and I would just write nonstop while sitting in class, while at the library when I was supposed to be studying, late at night when I should have been sleeping. I filled notebook after notebook, went through box after box of EraserMate blue erasable pens. I always figured that once I got down to it I'd write a real novel, sell it, and that would become my life: sitting at a writing desk, cranking out story after story and getting paid for it.

After I graduated, I got a job working for a magazine. It was a tiny magazine that no one had heard of, serving an extremely specific market (IT contractors), but I was In Publishing. I was a glorified intern, but I started out writing, among other things, a list of websites. I was writing! For money. Sorta. And answering the phone, but that's all right. Then I got a few more things to write, little magazine articles, some of which involved calling people to interview them. And it was about then that I made a rather pivotal discovery: I hate journalism. Hate it. Haaaaaaaaaate iiiiiiiiiiiit. I hate calling people up. I don't like writing about a topic I have no interest in. Fiction, yes. "Essays," sure, if an essay means a rambling opinion piece about something (you MIGHT say I'm an expert at that sort of thing). But anything under the broad category of "journalism" became repugnant to me. I remember pondering, at one point (probably while procrastinating on writing something), if I had a choice between being a journalist and being a person who shovels pig shit -- like, as a full-time job -- which one I'd pick. I picked pig shit, and it wasn't even a hard call. The idea of mindless physical labor, however difficult, seemed infinitely better to me than having to cold-call, conduct interviews, and then painfully squeeze out some weak lines of prose that tied it all together. I realized I couldn't write on demand -- or, I probably could, but I didn't want to.

This was kind of life-altering for me. As a recent college graduate, I'd assumed I'd go into a writing-related field, and this would murkily but decisively lead me eventually to my career as a novelist. Except while I was waiting for that to happen, I had to pay rent and buy food and things like that. At this magazine job, I fell into doing what has become my career: editing and proofreading. As far as a work task, I liked it MUCH better than writing. It took concentration, much of the time, but I didn't have to engage the brain engines that produce the alchemical, and still mystical to me, result. To this day I take forever to compose a simple two-line e-mail. Maybe I'm thinking too hard about it. But writing at work, ANY kind of writing, is highly stressful for me.

I still wrote outside of work: in fact I took a few fiction classes, including Paul's, and produced a few short stories that I'm proud of. The deadline pressure certainly helped. My attention is always divided, though; there are so many classes to take, languages to learn, hobbies to try. And TV to watch, and Sims games to play, and websites to screw around on.

So I've been an editor and proofreader lo these many years, and lately I've felt pulled toward the layout end of things. Basically, if I had my wish, what I would like to do is be given some text, which I did not write, and some guidelines and sit around in front of Quark for hours noodling with it until it looks good. It's interesting to me that I've pushed myself away from work-time writing, and now I'm trying to push myself further from work-time reading as well.

With all this on my mind, I went to the event last night. It was titled "A Conversation on the Craft of Writing," and that's what it was. Instead of a small, hot classroom in Sever, it was an auditorium, filled with people eager to learn from the accomplished author. I witnessed quite a bit of feverish note-taking. As I listened to the detailed questions and his freewheeling, rambling, but ultimately illuminating answers, I felt submerged in nostalgia -- not so much for the class, but for writing. For the hard work of it, the problem-solving, the joy of crossing that indefinable threshold past which the words come flowing out, the rush of reading it over the next day. Even the frustration and the desperation to be doing ANYTHING else (cleaning your house, organizing your e-mail, watching some TV show that normally you'd never look twice at but that's suddenly become unbearably compelling). The effort, and the earned reward. And I felt something else, a little pang of betrayal. I had spent years telling myself that if I ever went to grad school it should be for something practical. A graphic-design certificate program hardly qualifies as "grad school," but it's further education that (hopefully) will help my career. And listening to Paul talk, all I could think was that I wished I could quit work and go into an MFA program. Which I've thought of doing in the past, but which has always seemed overly idealistic, financially irresponsible, and ultimately an indulgent waste of time.

Of course, trying to pick up some skills that will help me steer my career in a direction I'd like it to take doesn't mean I'm giving the finger to the idea of "being a writer." But I saw it laid out for me, in a kind of umistakable way, that I'd given up the idea of a writing career. I think that's all right. I long ago reasoned that I'd rather save my creative fuel for my off time, even if I haven't been using it that much in the off time lately. Still, it staggered me a little.

Paul must have had hundreds of former students coming up to him at these talks, hoping he'll remember them, wishing they'd made themselves special to him before he became special himself. He recognized my friend and me, smiled and chatted with us, and asked if we were still writing. We sort of laughed and shuffled our feet. It was like looking across a river to some shimmering country on the other side. Not because of the Pulitzer or the adoring undergrads. It's the certainty of a path taken, of a commitment made and a promise fulfilled. You set out to be a writer, and now you are one, in the most legitimate, realized way possible.

I'm glad I didn't live at home for years, torturing myself over my daily procrastinations and excuses. I'm glad I have a full-time job and a house and regular hours and a social life and health insurance. I still want to write a novel. Most people have day jobs while they try to write novels, and I still believe that I will do it someday. But in the meantime I've got to learn some web design so I can get a higher-paying job and be able to afford to travel once in a while and to put money in retirement and all that stuff. And there's no shame in that, and I don't have any shame over it; I'm excited. But part of me still feels like I settled.

When I was taking fiction classes, we were urged to carry around a "writing notebook" and jot down observations to mine for future stories. I think I should get back to doing that. Maybe it's time to try to get started again.