Am I a Writer?

Thoughts about trying to legitimize my literary work.. to myself.

This seemingly harmless question has been haunting me for quite a while now. So much so that I decided to make it the subject of not one, but two installments of my newsletter. It was chosen as the topic of my debut article and its sequel, automatically graduating this personal dispute to a twisted fixation.

This unnecessary dilemma lives somewhere deep in my brain, sneakily surfacing any moment my mind is not occupied by other daily matters.

Every time I stop and interrogate my actions, the impending query overtakes my soul, sucks the confidence out of me, and prompts a crippling attack of impostor syndrome.

I believe my obsession with finding external consensus is triggered by my own internal biases on labor and professionalism (though, this is a debate for another time - potentially the subject of its own essay down the line). As well as the ten years I spent dedicating my time to a different profitable task. One where, yes, writing was implied, but it was never the main focus.

I guess imprinting this thought on (digital) paper instead of seeking vocal confrontation automatically answers the question, however, I still feel puzzled and redundant. No sense of resolution whatsoever. Why do I still feel like an amateur when my words have been published by established magazines internationally?

At times, I am pervaded by a “chicken or egg” type conundrum:
Am I a writer because I am happy to write without the monetary aspect, or am I a writer because my work has been picked up, requested, or commissioned by a verified institution?

As previously discussed, I have felt compelled to write since a young age.
As a child, like many others, I kept a diary but the urge to externalize my thoughts didn’t just stop at the pink pages of the glittered notebook where I extensively poured my juvenile stream of consciousness and latest boy crush. I had so much to say that I spent most of my school hours passing notes to my friends, prompting them to engage in well-rounded conversations that, if read out loud, would probably require the same amount of time needed to go through a presidential lecture.

Needless to say, I was often isolated from my desk mate because I was a disruption to their learning (in my opinion, I was simply helping them develop their handwriting skills).

I still carry the signs of that early writing inclination on my right-hand fifteen-plus years later: the callus provoked by the pen hitting on my ring finger never dissolved, despite switching to digital ink in college.

In elementary and middle school, I was excited when my teacher in class would test us on our grammar and creative writing skills through essay tests; I often went overtime and exceeded the paper limit. Sometimes I couldn’t conclude my argument due to the length of my stories and theories.

Even back then, I was not good at fiction. I thrived on descriptive literature, and literary critique and I was especially successful when the essay revolved around an open question.

I think my writer’s block and endless dissatisfaction with the discipline was instilled in me by my high school Italian and Latin professor. A sour bitch - pardon my French - who, I believe, disliked me due to my excellent confrontational skills and the aspiration to experience more in life than bullying teenagers who had yet to find their place in the world.

Whenever I submitted my essays, she would send them back with an excessive amount of red marks. She blamed my use of grammar and syntax, while really, her comments were mostly pointed at the content of the composition.

For those reading who know me well, I think it is not hard to believe that the aftermath was never passive. In fact, the beef I had with Ms. Manicardi spilled over to all the other classes she was teaching, leading to switching schools in order to graduate in peace and with the GPA I deserved (also a story for another time).

***

Side note to prove I am not tooting my own horn: I was never a master student nor I ever made the honor roll, however, I was above average in school.

***

In college, as a Visual communications major, I was required to take a creative writing class - and thankfully so, as I finally got the chance to flex my storytelling ability again. The course opened my eyes: careers in writing do happen.

At this point in my life, winning a Pulitzer or becoming an acclaimed writer didn’t figure on my wish list of accomplishments worth working hard towards. Surely, I didn’t care to be published in renowned literary magazines either.

Matter of fact, instead of intensifying, my interest in the discipline slowly faded. My hunger for reading also became dormant, and while I used to spend hours and hours devouring J.K. Rowling’s books as a child, I was now discouraged by the idea of becoming a literary master.

At this point, my obsession for writing had been subdued by an impelling affinity for fashion and creative marketing. Something that would later become - and still is to this day - my daily bread.

It was only many years later, long after I strutted on the stage of the Staples Center, and grabbed my graduation certificate from whoever was blessing the ceremony, that writing became part of my livelihood. It wasn’t intentional either. It sort of just happened to me (unless one considers Twitter as a journal, which it’s fair given the amount of crap I was spewing out to the world).

Looking back, my debut as a career writer was a burst of luck. A coincidence stirred me toward my gift. An interview that changed my ambitions and even pushed me closer to home* as it was the start of my interest in football storytelling.

I can’t exactly recall what I felt like that first time I was asked to write something “professionally”. However, I know it sparked something in me. It re-ignited a fire that had been latent for a long time. It gave me a confidence boost and triggered the idea that maybe, just maybe, this was actually what I was passionate about. It was 2015.

After years of practicing writing without the aim of making it my profession, in 2018, while working on a self-pitched investigative piece for Mundial Magazine alongside Glauco Canalis**, I had an epiphany.

Writing was indeed my passion, purpose, and lifeline. And so I dived right into it.

I started to - skeptically - introduce myself as a writer and, after leaving my job at Adidas, I serendipitously was asked to join a magazine as Editor at Large.

Almost immediately my mind was stimulated and aroused by new publishing ambitions and writing opportunities swarmed me - needless to say, my ego was pleased.

I swiftly started to be recognized as an expert in the field of football culture and its derivates. I became sort of an oracle (yes, this sounds arrogant but it is the closest adjective to describe my reality when it comes to female/football/fashion discourse..at least in Italy) for topics sitting at the junction of sport and fashion.

The demand for my point of view on this niche subject immediately enhanced my curiosity and need to research and tell the stories of remarkable people. It was a domino effect.

On top of the above, I acquired the widespread ambition of writing books and venturing out into the world of magazines and zines on my own.

Yet, there’s been an invisible hook attached to my back that has been holding me from pursuing a full-time commitment to writing. And I have yet to figure out what it is.

Is it fear of the unknown? Possibly, though I have always been flexible and dynamic.

Is it the temporary pay cut? Extremely possible, though I would rather do something fulfilling and challenging than perish in my comfort zone.

Or is it the fact that I am too afraid to commercialize my talent, falling trap to the usual artist catch-22?

I guess I will only find out by betting on the next chapter of my life.

Notes:
*I grew up in a football household. My father was a professional footballer and then a FIFA agent after a little stint as A.S Torino’s sporting director.

**My football stories partner.