What do we really want as writers?

Publishing? Fortune? Because I think the reality signifies something a lot simpler.

Donde me lleva…haha. Chetumal, Mexico, ca. 2020.

Too many years ago, I got into skateboarding. I peeped all the skate videos, read the skate mags, and bought into the scene — which of my favorite skaters was getting their own board, advancing from am to pro, winning contests. I started as a woeful kickflipper, spending days perfecting the perfect flick and catch, and then moved into my own little tier of hitting tre flips, learning how to grind, jump down sets.

I started hitting the local park as my second home. I skated all day, all summer there. Messing around. Hitting up little lines, combos, shit that made me feel cool. I made friends with the hot shots in the park, admiring them in how they so easily hit my tricks as warmup. Boom, 5-0 the handrail, or kickflip the set. They inspired me. I worked hard and, the following summer, I started hitting some of the same shit they were doing.

Then, one day, admiring one of the hotshot skaters — Tyler, this tall, older teenager with a long flow of hair and a scraggly stache — I asked one of my other friends like, how does this guy do it?

“You know he’s sponsored, right?” my friend replied. When I gave him a confused look, he elaborated: Tyler represented the local shop at events, competitions, and got free swag as a result.

Everything came together. Tyler was sponsored; he represented this higher echelon of skill and expertise; he had everything I wanted, and I knew in that moment, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I needed to earn sponsorship. I told myself, if I can skate like Tyler, I can earn sponsorship. I skated all summer. I fixated on perfecting tricks. I entered this ruthless cycle of consuming shit about skateboarding, practicing skateboarding, then measuring myself up to Tyler. Soon enough, I started hitting the 5-0 on the handrail in casual warmups, in that rapid progression that can only accompany teenage obsession. I asked my friends to film me. I edited shit together.

Then, I started sending my videos nonstop to Tyler. To everyone. Like I legit hit a cringe level of needing validation. And my friend, the one who told me about Tyler being sponsored, left me with something I’ll never forget.

“Yo bro,” he said one day. We sat atop a rusted halfpipe, just baking in the end-of-summer sun. I had been fretting to him, again, about if Tyler had peeped my sponsor-me tape. “You gotta relax man. I heard that he watched it. And they’re saying, just chill. Like shit will come around. But you’re taking the fun out of it.”

Oh…shit. My bad. My friend’s words gave me the lens I lacked to recognize my cringe. He was right. Skating had been my refuge, my way of fitting into a new place. It had been my escape. Just a simple, clean kickflip filled me with joy. Cruising. And now, every trick, every line, every video I took of myself came with the explicit need of sponsorship.

I’m sure you see where this is going.

Ballin’ in LES, NYC. ca. 2017.

I started writing when I was like 15. I loved cataloguing and describing my experiences as that weird, mixed teenager who navigated new schools while skateboarding. I followed that passion through college, maybe finding a shimmer of that same appeal of validation, the one that animated me as a skater, and envisioned a world of MFAs, literary mags, and publication — as a 21-year old exiting college. Yes.

I applied to various MFAs right out of college. I didn’t get in anywhere. I didn’t publish shit. I went to our final reading, the one where all the dique Creative Writing minors got to share their final projects, and my shit was all crickets. No one got my shit. One of my faculty advisors promised me an internship with an esteemed literary mag, and then reneged on the offer after I spent half the summer wondering what the fuck I was gonna do with my life after college.

I moved back home to NY. I pivoted toward my other interest, filmmaking, and built a career path working in commercials/films in NYC, leaving writing in my past — kind of out of spite. I justified this move by characterizing the literary world as snobby.

But filmmaking had its own pitfalls. Later, in my mid-20s, I found myself craving some of the freedom of writing. And while I remembered the snobbiness, I also never had to put down real bread in writing. Filmmaking, making my own short films — I had to pay gaffers, grips, rent cargo vans, wake up at five in the morning to grind as a PA to fund my own ventures. I got back into writing with a vow to myself: I was doing this just for fun.

How do you think that’s gone?

I progressed. I got into some “competitive” workshops. I raised the bar for myself, telling myself at each point that validation in this journey came at the next step — not the one I had just found. I needed an MFA. I got into one, then transferred into another. I graduated, just now, this past spring. Where do you think the bar is, now?

Fact is, I think when people talk about publishing, they have this nebulous idea of validation that comes in two concrete forms:

1. Having a lot of people read their shit

2. Having the cognoscenti of “literary” people in NYC accept their title

I’ve left out money, because I think most writers have moved past that illusion that publishing leads to riches. But I’m not gonna lie — I’ve been to the readings with the type famous Twitter heads gossiping about their titles, editors, and I’ve felt out of the “cool” club. But what do those two manners of validation really say about what we writers want out of this?

Panamanian Day Parade, Flatbush, Brooklyn, ca. 2017.

Having a lot of people read their shit. Okay. How realistic does that seem as we continue the writing journey and find our voice and niche? I think I’ve gained an understanding that, as much as I want each and every person on planet Earth to really connect with my writing on a deep level, that’s impossible. Because to write to one person means to alienate another, and our writing only gains strength through its ability to distinctly and profoundly influence its target audience. I’ve written stories about Latino dudes finding their place in a hyper-masculine culture and sometimes thought like, no, I don’t think everyone’s going to fuck with this. But someone else might, and I wrote those stories because I never found that theme/topic covered in a way that spoke to me.

Having “literary” people in NYC accept their shit. This of course requires little elaboration, because there’s always a “cool club” that’s as nebulous and poorly defined as it is enduring. It always changes. There’s always people who won’t fuck with you. In the words of my Lord Benito “Bad Bunny” Ocasio Martinez: “el que me quiere que me quiera, el que me odia que me odie.” If you fuck with me, you fuck with me. If you hate me, you hate me. That’s just how it’s gonna be, and I don’t need to bend over backwards for an imaginary group that’s ever-changing in its ideals. PLUS, a more talented cultural commentator could comment on this “NYC literary circle” and its basis in white ideals, especially based on the demographics of the industry.

So what’s left? That feeling of a clean kickflip underneath your feet? The feeling of a finished, finished short story that communicates all those thoughts you’ve had over the past year? It’s scary, but yes. Countless writers have elaborated on this process of searching for a new bar of fulfillment only to return to the act of writing itself—including the kid himself,

Andrew Boryga

, in an excellent reflection on publishing VICTIM (which is an incredible book that you should peep if you haven’t yet).

Publishing a Novel Did Not Change My Life

What matters, in my humble opinion, comes down to this act of expressing ourselves through words and pushing ourselves to articulate the inarticulate, no matter how complex and meaningful and raw. Finding fulfillment in that comes from this love and respect for our very practice. And it’s a damn difficult one, too. But one that I think merits this renewed lens, lest we end up like teenage me: spamming those sponsor-me tapes til your homie sits you down at the skatepark to go, yo, enjoy the ride!