writer with a lowercase w (on writing in a life full of limitations

Last Sunday, my laptop broke for the third time this year.

The first time was my fault: I stupidly left a bottle of water unscrewed in my backpack, only realizing my error once I saw my backpack leaking all over the linoleum floor. By the time I pulled out my poor laptop, it was too late to resuscitate it. The second time was Best Buy's fault: the refurbished replacement they sent me turned out to be tied to a former Doordash employee, and despite powerwashing the machine ad nauseam, it never let me bypass the security set-up screen. And the third time was a cruel trick from fate, who decided it would be funny to crash my new laptop's entire system right in the middle of my scheduling a doctor's appointment. 

All of that's a long way to explain why I'm sitting in the laundromat, mooching off their free WiFi and typing this post on a Chrome tablet that looks like an upscale Fisher Price toy. And, man, would you believe me if I told you this is somehow the most I've written in months?

I have always been foolishly optimistic about technology if I think it'll help me write. I promised myself last summer when I got a new laptop - a beautiful Samsung Galaxy Chromebook that my mom insisted on solely for the ruby-red finish - that this would be the beginning of my new writing life. Now that I had dropped a week's wages on this machine, I imagined, surely I would set up time to write more. The real reason I hadn't been working wasn't writer's block: it was because my last laptop was too lousy to work on. A machine this powerful would lend itself to all of the unleashed creative potential within me! The sky was the limit!

As it turned out, my new productivity machine turned out to be more of a distraction machine. Instead of using its beautiful 4K screen to draft new poems, I used it to marathon Girls' Generation music videos. Its incredibly-satisfying keyboard (tactile without being obnoxiously clicky) ended up covered in Hot Cheeto crumbs from late-night gaming sessions. I hate to say that overall, it saw more use on my toilet than in the coffee shops I imagined myself frequenting. My lofty expectations for my writing life crumbled under the weight of my sloth.

But my shame didn't just have to do with wasting $599 (before tax): it also cut to my core anxieties about whether I had what it took to be a Writer with a Capital W. My job certainly played a part: at the time, I was also working full-time as a high school teacher, and as much as I loved the work, it consumed so much of me that I found it hard to think about anything else. It got harder and harder to imagine myself ever living the life of a professional writer. There's a certain image my brain conjured when I thought of this life - someone who gets up at 5AM without snoozing their alarm at least twice, spends their morning grazing on biscuits and orange tea, sits at their desk for three hours straight, not once getting up to fiddle on their phone or stalk the cute barista on Instagram. Those people had willpower and persistence and impeccable taste in cardigans; I had insomnia, self-doubt, and ten unfolded black T-shirts with holes in the armpits. Give it up, Mo, I thought to myself. This will never be your life. 

Turns out, that voice was right - just not in the ways that it meant.

Thankfully, although I didn't find myself writing very often during 2021, I still found pockets of inspiration and opportunity. In my classroom, I continued to use my own assignments as excuses to write for my students: the first assignment of the year, a "This I Believe" personal narrative, helped inspire me to write a personal reflection on queerness and faith that I am still incredibly proud of. My co-worker and I also attempted - maybe foolishly - to launch a school magazine, which brought a surprising amount of interest from student artists and writers. Beyond the classroom, the stress of teaching that year pushed me to write a ton of poetry and journal entries. None of that work was for money or prestige, but it was a good reminder for me that writing will always be a helpful way for me to process my feelings and ideas. 

Even better, a very kind colleague nominated me for the Bay Area Writing Project's summer institute in June, a gathering of educators who are passionate about improving writing instruction for their students and their communities; not only did the program push me to do a ton of new writing, it also introduced me to 18 INCREDIBLE fellow educators, all of whom are doing groundbreaking work in their classrooms with students. It reignited my passion for teaching and writing with other people, whether colleagues, students, or strangers. Instead of writing being a professional I had to choose - over teaching, over resting, over being - it felt like something that could become part of my life's fabric. Suddenly, I found myself asking new questions: How do we build each other up as writers? How do we create writing opportunities for the kinds of people who you might not see at your usual Open Mic or poetry reading? And if we can sustain that work, in all the small and big ways, how would our communities look different? 

On the last day of the program, I left a bottle of water in my backpack - with the lid unscrewed.

So I find myself back home, finishing this post on top of a rickety IKEA desk. To my immediate left, a pile of socks I need to put away and a dresser that will probably fall apart in approximately spring 2024; behind me, a bookshelf whose unrounded edges poke at the back of my chair. But maybe this is always how it was meant to be - maybe this is a different kind of writing life than the one I used to imagine. Maybe I won't ever be able to hole up in a Starbucks every day, hacking away without interruption. Maybe I won't ever be able to afford to buy (hell, rent) the quiet house with the writing room I once dreamed of inhabiting. Maybe I will always be writing in the margins of my life: a hand-me-down desk in a dimly-lit apartment, a spare seat on the Berryessa train, a picnic table in a laundromat with terrible reception and mothers consoling screaming toddlers.

I still don't know if I'll ever be a Writer with a capital W. But for now, I still have this slow-ass tablet, a functioning keyboard, and thoughts that I want to share with you. It's more than enough.