How to feel like a “real” writer (or dog person)
On practicality and romance and one not precluding the other
I write better on a laptop than real paper. I’ve been insecure about this for as long as I can remember. As a kid I made desperate attempts to keep journals—I collected physical notebooks, had convinced my family I was a “writer” and so received them as frequent gifts—and was distraught by each inevitable fizzle. I’d mark a few pages before stepping back to admire the shape of the paper and typeface of the date field and then continue my “real” writing (whatever nonsense that constituted) on a computer.
The only time I successfully kept an analog journal was in Thailand. One day at base camp a guide asked “what are you always doing in that notebook?” and I blushed with hesitant pride: I am a writer. Even then, my handwritten success was mostly because lugging my laptop around was impractical, and I’d have had to worry about the battery, and most of all it would have been easier for people to read over my shoulder. (I purposefully wrote in messy cursive that is to this day hard for me to decipher.)
The thing I know logically: Writing is writing, whether on an old laptop or in a beautiful notebook or simply my head. (Verlyn Klinkenborg, author of my favorite book on writing, says above all the job of a writer is creating sentences in their head.) I believe this. I still feel I’m somehow doing it wrong.
The tool to move words into the physical world is not my only writing insecurity. I am full of them, and most are silly because they have so little to do with the quality of a piece and so much to do with my weird internalized impressions of romance.
For years before I actually enjoyed coffee, I liked the idea of it. Today I pound decaf in part because it makes me feel like a writer, like an artist. I love the ring of brown on the counter when I pick up my mug to cradle in one hand, using the other to scroll a document of words that fills empty space not just on a digital page but somehow inside myself.
I used to stay up late writing because it made me feel like I belonged. I thought all the best writers must be struck with inspiration at odd hours. They’re compelled to run from parties and errands and funerals to jot something down, lest they forget it. Lest the forgetting makes them unravel.
Thankfully I never tightly embraced alcohol, but I did consider the advice so many erroneously attribute to Hemingway: Write drunk, edit sober. I felt more authorly while sipping wine or scotch (I don’t even like scotch) with a performative chin stroke.
Meanwhile doing practical things for my writing felt unromantic. I focused on the accouterments of writing more than the actual craft. I wanted to accessorize my work rather than lose myself in it.
Eventually I realized I was thinking of writing the way I used to think of relationships: They had to be spontaneous—they had to flow—for them to be worthwhile.
But my marriage with Sean is wonderful in large part because we’ve focused on logistics. We’ve had extremely unromantic conversations. We’ve stacked boring moments to build a foundation for the feel-great ones, because spontaneous joy visits more often in the right atmosphere.
I did the same thing with Scout. I preoccupied myself with what leash and collar she’d wear, what treats we’d use, how we’d look together walking down the street. I placed more weight on appearances—how to quickly inform everyone around me that I am a “dog nerd”—than our shared experience, the reality of her living with me and me living with her.
I wanted a dog who just got me, a dog like the main character of the first novel I ever tried to write, a creature who automatically fit right in. I convinced myself that was the only meaningful way to connect with another creature. Don’t we need to be destined for each other? Don’t we need to feel it instantly?
No. We don’t.
The effort I’ve put in to grow with Scout has not only given us more amazing moments—by letting us live in harmony, with less conflict—it’s also allowed me to more deeply appreciate the times it does just work.
And our relationship means more because I’m choosing it. Something without effort can never be quite as satisfying as something you feel you’ve earned. This is why it’s so overwhelmingly special that Scout trusts me and Sean the way she does: She doesn’t feel comfortable around all people, but she’ll sprawl to sleep on my lap, she’ll seek us out in times of distress, she’ll do anything for us. And not by accident. Not by coincidence. Not because her heart recognized my heart and our souls were meant to be.
Because we’ve worked for it. We’ve taken our baseline compatibility, our initial attraction, those inklings of affection, and we’ve built it into something strong. Solid. Deep.
Once I accepted that practicality is not inherently unromantic, I started experiencing more magic. This applies to my entire life. I once thought romance was surface gestures and grand displays, love at first sight, showy musical numbers… now I see it is something you invite, day in and day out, by considering logistics and embracing mess and throwing your clumsy arms wide.
What’s strangest is that I conflated “real” and “romantic” when, if pressed, I’d say the two are closer to opposites. Not mutually exclusive, no. But certainly not synonyms. What’s real is the work. The effort. The love, too—but the practical kind as much as the delirious version. The Velveteen Rabbit is made real through imperfect, smoldering, sometimes-harmful love. Not through Instagram moments.