I was at a gathering over the weekend of arts educators from all around Oregon. It was a rich, affirming experience I’ll talk about at length later, but in the short time I have right now, I’d like to address a niggling issue.
There were artists of all kinds at this gathering. Potters and painters, dancers and actors, people who spend their days creating more than just filthy lucre for capitalist ends. Among them were some musicians–like me–and a few writers–also like me. And when we would introduce ourselves, we’d say “what art do you do?” and then discuss the various outputs each artist employs.
“Oh, I work in oils,” some said.
“I use found objects!”
“I do devised theater.”
When I tell people I’m a writer, the first question everybody asks is “are you published?”
Not “what kind of writing do you do?” Or “what’s your favorite format?” Or “what equipment do you prefer? Do you write by hand or on a computer?” “Where do you work? Coffeeshops or home?”
No. The question is always about being published.
And I understand that there’s an element of “where can I read your work?” implicit in that question. But you’ll notice “where can I read your work?” is NOT the question that’s asked. “Are you published?” is the question.
And to this, I object. Not because I’m not published–I am. I object because the standard for BEING a writer appears to be external validation, the voice of an outside authority to deem the writer acceptable. To be thus coronated is the beginning and end of a writer’s journey, they seem to say. Before being published the person wasn’t a writer; the day they were published they were.
But that’s just wrong.
Painters are painters because they paint. Actors are actors because they act. Musicians are musicians because they play music.
And writers are writers because they write.
When I tell people I’m a pianist, no one–and I mean no one–says “oh, where do you perform?” “What stage can I see you on?” They accept my answer that I am a pianist as fact, truth on its face. I am a pianist because I play piano. It’s simple.
Writers who aren’t published on a major platform are no less writers than those who are. They’re just either not aiming to be published on a major platform, working on a project that hasn’t been submitted yet, or languishing–as so many very famous writers do–in the rejection phase of submitting their work. On someone’s advice, I made it my goal to get 100 rejection letters. I have made it to 38, and I’m still plugging away at it. This is for a piece that I have honed to a sharpness I didn’t know I could achieve, a piece that has been so well received at public readings and by private readers that the response included audible gasps and lengthy conversations after finishing.
I know this piece is good. But there is no external body out there who recognizes this yet. And so I am not “published” with my fiction yet. Am I part of a few zines? Yes. Do I have a major publication out there who has acknowledged my talent by dint of their acceptance of my work into their stable of work? Not yet.
Have I published multiple non-fiction articles in various places? You bet I have. For about 20 years, I’ve published articles in established outlets, including newspapers, magazines, and online sites hosted by other people, not just my blog here. Oh, and my blog here. I’m published here. Where you are reading my work.
But my fiction isn’t published anywhere official yet. Does this make me any less of a writer?
Absolutely not.
So how about we stop asking the “where are you published” question right out of the gate? How about we apply the same expectations to writers that we apply to all other artists; if you do the art, you are an artist. If you paint, you are a painter. If you sing, you are a singer. If you act, you are an actor.
I write, so I am a writer.
Meg Currell 
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