By Nofar Almog
I’m always deadly afraid of the question, “Who is your favorite author?” Maybe because I feel like I don’t read enough, or not enough authors anyhow. Maybe it’s because I don’t feel as though I could ever say that I have just one. But yet when someone asks me this, my mind turns into a black hole and the only author’s name I can manage to remember is Jodi Picoult. It’s as if she forced herself upon my mind, and made sure that she was the only adequate answer.
So here I am, back on her website for the fifth time today, ogling over her accomplishments and awards, and the 23 books that she published. And then, suddenly, as if my hand was forced to scroll here, I find myself staring at words I wish I had never discovered. I scroll up, then back down just to make sure I’m not hallucinating. But there it is again!
www.jodipicoult.com (CLICK) —> (HOVER OVER) “FAQ’s” (CLICK) —> #1 “NEW frequently asked questions” (CLICK) —> (SCROLL DOWN TO QUESTION): “I think I’m a writer… how do I know for sure?” —> (HIGHLIGHT) Jodi Responded, “I think you can make a person a better writer technically by having him/her attend workshops and creative writing programs… but I think that at the basal level, writers are born, not made.”
writers are born, not made…
writersarebornnotmade
DOOMED. What if I wasn’t born a writer? (That word carries so much weight. It doesn’t have the luxury to just sit on the page, unaccompanied by tears. Being born is to be given a life, to be given air, and the ability to see and hear the most precious moments that we treasure because of a paradigm, because of that moment’s place in time and space. Being born something means to have the ability to change the world, to be a part of the domino effect of the universe.) Had I been born a writer, would it be indicated on my birth certificate?? But mine is blue and written in Hebrew… Do they not conform to this idea in Israel? What if… oh no… what if Israeli birth certificates are the only ones that don’t say whether or not you’re born a writer. Like if I were born in America, it would say:
name: nofar
place of birth: some hospital in america
mother’s name: racheli
father’s name: jacky
writer: YES
What if, even if I was born in ‘some hospital in america’, it would still say: NO.
Now what? Do I stare at my new desk I bought specifically because I thought it would read: ‘writer: YES’? Am I allowed to touch my new set of pens and pencils? My new special paper? My idea notebook? Do I have to choose a different profession? Is my writing just a hobby?
The thought makes me want to puke, but instead I feel how dry my mouth is. I try to swallow but the dryness makes it hard to even close my mouth and breath at the same time. Writing is not something I was ever told to do. It has been tingling at the tips of my fingers since thirteen. It has been picking my brain for new ideas in my sleep and in the drool that escapes from my day dreams.
I thought I wanted to be an English teacher, but I only wanted that so I could spread the love I have for writing. I wanted it so I could be able to shake those drooling, slacking, careless teenagers by the shoulders and say, “How could writing not be the most beautiful part of this world! How could you be so unaffected by this author or that author’s writing?!?”
So what if I’ll never know if I’m truly supposed to be a writer? Anybody can call themselves a writer and no one’s going to dare tell them they’re not.
I pick up my brand new fountain pen. I’ve never used one before, but I thought it would look “writeresque” placed precisely under the single beam of sunlight that hits my new desk when I’m not using it. It’s actually quite heavy and weighs my hand down, making my writing slop all over the page.
“John’s boots were tan.”
I scratch that line out.
“John’s boots are tan.”
Scribbled right through that one, too.
“Tan are ….”
Writers are born not made. The line runs through my head like the headline of the year.
I throw my pen hopelessly on the desk. It makes a mark across the whole page. What a waste of $120. I sit and wait for some Muse to sing me the entire first draft of my realistic fiction novel. Or at least for this “writer’s block” to pass. And then it hits me:
Dear Jodi Picoult,
I guess you could say I’m a fan of yours. I guess you could even say you’re my favorite author. I write to you, though, not because I admire your style, your characters, or plot, not because I wish I could write my first draft in nine months like you— but because I have a question. I would like to know whether or not you think I was born to be a writer. I mean, you state, very clearly on your website, that you believe “writers are born, not made.” And I guess I couldn’t find the answer on my birth certificate so I am turning to you. I know this sounds insane; you have no idea who I am, until your eyes will scroll to the bottom and read, “Nofar Almog,” and even then, what could my name possibly tell you about who I am? Or whether or not I was born to be a writer?
I probably don’t expect you to answer, but if you were to write back and say something like, “you would know, you would feel it inside, you wouldn’t be able to go a day without writing the story that begs to be told,” then I would argue that writers are made not born. How the hell is a newborn baby, just out of the womb, supposed to be filled with ideas and stories that beg to be told? The answer is: it isn’t, but it would go to school, and learn to write, and think about what makes the world go round, and then maybe a story would come out of it all.
I really would hate to sound rude or condescending or even judgmental of your opinion to which you are fully entitled. I just don’t think you understand (maybe you do now but not when you said it) how much impact your words can have. I would almost dare say, take them back! But I can’t because you can’t and saying that wouldn’t make me feel like more of a writer. Words are like toothpaste. Once it’s out, you can’t put it back. The funny thing is, that writers of all people, know exactly how powerful words can be, how much weight they can carry, and how much they should be treasured. I guess, though, not all writers know that it also applies outside of their stories.
I really love your writing, but now I realize I don’t have to love you or your opinions simply because your writing is exemplary.
Nofar Almog
I laid my pen next to the letter, aligned with the edge of the paper. I read and reread the letter: the first time, I thought, this is amazing, someone should tell her this! The second time, well, maybe this sounds a little rude; by the fifth time, I had gone back and forth between confidence and horrific realizations that if I didn’t get her approval, I would be doomed.
But instead of slipping it into an envelope and licking it shut, I smiled. I crumbled the piece of paper as tiny as it would allow me and tossed it behind me.