“How to Become a Writer” illustrates that the pursuit of creativity demands relentless perseverance that is sometimes hard to understand. Written in the second person (addressing the main character as “you”), the story takes the form of a self-help guide, but the inclusion of specific details from Francie’s life makes it immediately obvious that this story is anything but a guide. In fact, the story’s form pokes fun at the idea that becoming a writer could ever be a clear-cut, linear process; instead, it’s a road paved with criticism and despair. Francie’s first poem is a haiku sequence through which she responds to her failed ambitions of becoming “President of the World.” This initial creative moment begins the pattern of outsized ambition, failure, and perseverance that characterizes Francie’s creative habit. Though her peers and teachers rarely react positively to any of the stories she brings to class—stories that attempt to depict absurd, dramatic moments of violence—Francie continues to write them. When the people around Francie, including her roommate and her boyfriend, attempt to persuade Francie to focus on other activities, and when Francie’s mother expresses disappointment that Francie didn’t continue to pursue child psychology instead of creative writing, Francie ignores them and keeps writing.
It’s not as though Francie is immune to disappointment and hopelessness. In fact, she doesn’t even particularly enjoy being a writer, and she insists she wouldn’t list it amongst her top 20 fantasies in life. But it seems that no matter how frustrating she finds writing, and even though she has little evidence to prove her creative potential, Francie will sacrifice relationships and financial stability to pursue it. The thrill of creating something entirely new is enough to drive her onward. Others’ bemused reactions to Francie’s perseverance show that it’s not logical behavior, but more of an obsession: she simply can’t help herself. The story therefore suggests that a life of creativity is nothing like a typical career in which each accomplishment leads to the next and effort is rewarded by progress. Instead, a creative life is more of an inescapable fate than a career aspiration. It’s a life that demands perseverance in defiance of perpetual discouragement—even, perhaps, in defiance of all logical reason.
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Creativity and Perseverance Quotes in How to Become a Writer
First, try to be something, anything, else. A movie star/astronaut. A movie star/missionary. A movie star/kindergarten teacher. President of the World. Fail miserably. It is best if you fail at an early age—say, fourteen.
Look down at your schedule. Wonder how the hell you ended up here. The computer, apparently, has made an error. You start to get up to leave and then don’t. The lines at the registrar this week are huge. Perhaps you should stick with this mistake. Perhaps your creative writing isn’t all that bad. Perhaps it is fate.
Write another story about a man and a woman who, in the very first paragraph, have their lower torsos accidentally blitzed away by dynamite. In the second paragraph, with the insurance money, they buy a frozen yogurt stand together. There are six more paragraphs. You read the whole thing out loud in class. No one likes it. They say your sense of plot is outrageous and incompetent. After class someone asks you if you are crazy.
You spend too much time slouched and demoralized. Your boyfriend suggests bicycling. Your roommate suggests a new boyfriend. You are said to be self-mutilating and losing weight, but you continue writing. The only happiness you have is writing something new, in the middle of the night, armpits damp, heart pounding, something no one has yet seen.
Insist you are not very interested in any one subject at all, that you are interested in the music of language, that you are interested in—in—syllables, because they are the atoms of poetry, the cells of the mind, the breath of the soul. Begin to feel woozy. Stare into your plastic wine cup.
“Syllables?” you will hear someone ask, voice trailing off, as they glide slowly toward the reassuring white of the dip.
Your mother will come visit you. She will look at the circles under your eyes and hand you a brown book with a brown briefcase on the cover. It is entitled: How to Become a Business Executive. She has also brought the Names for Baby encyclopedia you asked for; one of your characters, the aging clown-school teacher, needs a new name.
Tell them you were going to be a child psychology major. “I bet,” they always sigh, “you’d be great with kids.” Scowl fiercely. Tell them you’re a walking blade.
“Interesting,” smiles your date, and then he looks down at his arm hairs and starts to smooth them, all, always, in the same direction.
