Claiming the Title of Writer from James W. Ziskin

In Lucy Worsley’s biography of Agatha Christie, we learned that Christie always wrote “married woman” in the “occupation” line on her passport. How did you navigate going public with being a writer? 

Me “writing” my name at
Interabang Bookstore, Dallas

I don’t recall there was ever any mention of profession in my passport, but, when traveling abroad, I used to write the word “business” on landing cards in the space earmarked for profession. Not sure why I balked at putting “businessman.” Maybe I didn’t want to be that. Most certainly didn’t want to be that. During my business career, I was a square peg in a round hole. I loved the work, yes, but hated many of the things required of management. Pushing pencils and counting beans were bad enough, though I could live with those. It was the laying off of people and scrounging for cost cuts, all to improve profits—ever so slightly and usually short-sightedly—that was killing me slowly. It made me sick, especially when the goal of efficiency was usually an exercise to maximize bonuses for the folks making the most money already. The lowest employees on the flowchart were deemed to be expendable though, ultimately, their salaries were not the ones hurting the company’s profitability.

So I felt sick about much of what I did and, as a result, never wrote “businessman” on my landing cards.

Neither did I write “writer.” I didn’t feel I’d earned it. Sure, I was writing in my spare time. Had been writing and trying to break through for forever, but I had to earn a living. Hence the roundish hole of a day job and my square-peggishness. I’d finished six novels over several decades, but had never managed to find the elusive publishing deal. I’d dreamed of being a writer since having tapped out my first novel on a blue portable Royal typewriter at age twelve. The identity of writer was important to me, a name I yearned for to define me. As such, it didn’t seem right to claim the title until I’d achieve some kind of demonstrable success in the field. Kind of like claiming the girl you can’t live without is crazy for you when—um, actually—she isn’t. Has, in fact, rebuffed your overtures in no uncertain terms. (Think rejection letters, writers.)

I needed to have something published before I could write “writer” on my landing cards.

It finally happened, of course. I finally wrote something someone felt was worthy enough to pay for and publish. Forty-one years after I’d written my first awful novel, by the way, with several other orphaned manuscripts along the way. It was torture to wait for that first morsel of satisfaction, doubting and despairing for so many years that it would ever happen. But that’s why the reward was so thrilling, fulfilling, and inspiring to me when it did happen. I could claim the title of writer at last and not feel like a fraud.

Today, I make no apologies. You can bet I tell people I’m a writer when asked what I do. I’ve paid my dues after all. Played by the rules, agonized over each failure, and put in the hard work. I studied and learned. Rubbed my paining backside and climbed back up on the horse countless times. Experimented and fell short. But I kept typing. Kept dreaming. Kept writing. As a writer does.