Community, Not Competition: A New Approach for Emerging Poets
In comparison to my peers and others in the community, my Asian parents are seen as more “liberal.” They split household chores equally between themselves, rejected traditional gender roles when my dad stayed at home while my mom went back to work after my brothers and I were born, and they weren’t phased when I came out to them (albeit confused with the terminology). Most importantly, my parents defied the stereotype when they didn’t push any of us toward being a doctor or lawyer.
But they did have one rule for us kids; one advice they often recited. “You can pursue whatever career you want in life,” they insisted, “As long as you are the best at it.” This has always stuck with me; their determination for my two brothers and I to be the best in our respective fields—the experts.
It seemed easy for both my brothers to find their calling. My older brother is financially savvy and took to coding naturally (and is making bank from it). My younger one is a mathematical genius, majoring in both math and physics in his undergraduate and now has a full-ride through grad school (he reads math textbooks for fun). But what I was best at was pretending to like the thing I was good at.
***
In my first two years of college, I studied architecture, which—any student doing it can attest—is an intense program with long hours in the studio, tight deadlines, and evidently requires sleep deprivation to pass. I’m not humble enough to downplay my design abilities. I was good; good at thinking outside the box, at pushing my conceptual ideas to fruition, and at sucking up to my professors and judges during critiques. I knew the language to bullshit my way to a passing grade and could produce high-quality drawings and models that stood out from the crowd. Oftentimes, I would find myself internally scoffing at my fellow classmates’ poor productions, all the while with a friendly smile pasted on my face. I held petty grudges, like when my final project was cheated out of display because a flawed polling system caused more votes to go to another student. It was a competitive mindset, no doubt about that. A toxic relationship with perfectionism and one-upmanship.
But despite all surface appearance to my parents and everyone else, architecture was never my end goal, the thing I wanted to be “best” at. For years, stretching back to elementary school, I have harbored the desire to be a writer. I would spend every free moment daydreaming up stories and keeping a running list of novel ideas. If I didn’t give myself an hour to plan out plots and characters before falling asleep, I would wake in a sour mood. But there was a deep-seated fear that accompanied me whenever I sat down to write. Part of the insecurity stemmed from being teased about my poor “English” skills. Grammar and spelling never came easy to me; sentences painfully extracted rather than flowed out naturally like it seemed to do for others.
So, out of fear of teasing and discouragement, my desire to pursue writing lay dormant for years, all throughout middle school, high school, and those first two years of college. All until one day, I couldn’t take it anymore. I was completely burnt out after a particularly straining semester of architecture, mentally and physically. I had pulled two all-nighters in a row to finish my final project, which I worked on up to the very last minute before I had to present at the critique. It did really well; the professors and guest architects at my presentation were impressed with the concept and design, and I received a good score for it. But after coming down from that high of a project well done, I sank into depression. I cut off all social connections and isolated myself from the outside world. The stress and exhaustion had finally caught up to me.
I struggled with my coursework the following semester. All the design spark dissipated when I thought about the mounting tasks facing me. I churned out mediocre work entirely devoid of the passion I once had. Inevitably, I broke and decided to stop. To stop studying architecture because I could not stand it any longer. I reached a breaking point in the spring of 2021 and decided to switch majors to something I have always wanted to study. So after a summer of doing absolutely nothing, I signed up for English and creative writing classes that fall.
Here’s the thing though; I didn’t tell my parents or anyone else. I kept up the illusion of being an ambitious architecture student; keeping a careful circle of safe topics to discuss with them and avoiding all mentions of what I was actually doing in my classes. It worked for a while. But the depression still lingered. Despite the fresh content, despite learning about something I had always been interested in, and despite putting more of myself out there—getting involved in student groups and events, seeking the queer community after a year of coming to terms with my sexuality—I still felt held back by my insecurity.
I was intimidated by paper deadlines, by spontaneous writing exercises in class, and when I had to share my writing in workshops with other students—all freshmen with a ninety-thousand-word novel they’re working on outside of class or who won this national writing competition when they were twelve. Everyone else around me seemed so unencumbered and confident, readily jumping to share their feminist take on The Great Gatsby in class discussion while I sat in the back silently regretting never taking AP Lit. In hindsight, that competitive mindset never left when I quit architecture. It followed and adapted to be a competition of my current abilities to the high standard I held them to.
The perfectionism also held me back from completing assignments on time and from ever turning in a full draft. I dropped half of my classes that first semester and halfway through my second in the spring of 2022, I couldn’t take it anymore—this cycle of always playing catch-up with work, and the sleepless nights worrying and doubting myself. So I dropped out of college. I came to a point where I was just trying to make it through the day, to survive this monotonous living, and accept that I’m not cut out to do this. This, being writing.
There were other contributing factors to my decision to leave college, but that was the main reason. I was working a terrible job at the time and continued to work there just so I had something to do when there wasn’t classwork to keep me busy. Eventually, I quit that too, and in that same summer, my parents discovered my secret switch to the English major and that I had dropped out. It blew up. I went from being seen as the creative, design-passionate, driven daughter to the family’s disappointment.
***
In most stories, during the all-time low point of a character’s arc, this should have been when I had an epiphany. Perhaps some realization that I can’t do this alone, or that I didn’t have to prove anything to anyone. But that never happened; or at least, I never uncovered any life-altering revelations at the time. I continued just trying to make it through each day and find some spark of joy again. In the following months, I tried everything, from starting an Etsy business reselling vintage decor to redecorating my room a billion times, attempting to dye my hair at home to getting over my fear of snakes. I did therapy, obviously, and while it did help, I didn’t make any world-shattering discovery about myself there either.
One crucial thing that did develop though was that I began to write poetry. Nothing big, nothing too complex, just a spilling of words into my notes app in late-night insomniac listlessness. It wasn’t the cure, it wasn’t an escape, but it became a mild balm to my creative itch. And then it grew to become something more when one of my works received recognition, when I started posting poems on Instagram, when—in an attempt to impress a girl I like—I purchased a poetry collection for over twenty dollars and attended a reading of her favorite poet.
As contradictory as it probably appears now, poetry wasn’t the great, shiny passion of my life, the volition I felt deep in my bones. It wasn’t something I fell in love with on sight, even if it was for many of you reading this. But through writing and reading poetry—inching closer to a community of writers who pour their hearts out into words and are brave enough to share them—I found something that thrilled me again, something that beckoned me closer, something that feels almost like acceptance.
I went back to college. Not because of my parents’ urging or because I felt ashamed of dropping out and all the societal associations that came with that, but because of my own determination to finish what I damned well started. By then, I no longer cared what my parents or what others thought of me in regards to what I wanted to do with my life. In my more pessimistic moods, I think the confidence I found came from spite; but when I’m more generous with myself, I would say it came from giving up on trying to be the best.
***
What my parents’ advice gave me is the liberty to choose my path in life and an ambitious spirit. For that, I am grateful. But the drawback to having a goal of being the best is that you isolate your progress from that of the community. What you contribute to the field of your choosing will always inherently be made with the intention of furthering your own status, your own placing on the mythical ladder of success.
This is something I’ve observed through my own experience with poetry. Competition is ingrained in the literary ecosystem. So much of being an emerging poet feels competitive, like you’re competing against other voices to be seen and read. Instapoets are competing against the algorithm, space is limited in literary magazines, and you may spend significant time and effort submitting to various places only to be met with rejection after rejection. Every poet aspires to share their work, and the ones that don’t likely idolize a life hidden away from the messy world in a quiet, wooded oasis—to be discovered after death and proclaimed a literary genius of their time. It also didn’t help that I saw my decision to switch from architecture to writing as a selfish act. What good can my poems and stories do for the world when, as an architect, I could physically build communities and make a tangible difference? Every writer must be, at least, a bit self-serving in order for their voice to be heard in the cacophony of aspiring literary geniuses.
But that doesn’t have to be all there is to being a poet. Since graduating college last spring (I did it!), I’ve had more time to get involved in the local literary scene. From taking classes at a writing center to volunteering at literary events; from attending poetry readings in bookstores to flying out to New Jersey for their Dodge Poetry Festival. My friends and I started a poetry club as well, and from spending time with them, I’ve learned to not take poetry too seriously. It’s so easy to get stuck in the habit of writing in one style or form, or reading from only a specific type of poet, that you can lose sight of everything poetry can be. The sense of play with language and narrative, how it can be set to a rhythm and made into a rap, and do you remember that time in second grade when we wrote poems in silly animal shapes?
Hanging out with writers and nonwriters alike has shown me the importance of enjoying what I produce and consume. Writing without care about the audience’s reception of my work. Allowing myself to put down a book when it’s no longer captivating. Coming together with friends to talk smack about an undeservedly popular poet or rave about our favorite poems on cats and tea. As long as you enjoy doing it, isn’t that enough? Is sprinting towards fame and recognition worth the risk of losing grip on your passion for the craft?
***
I recently attended an event at The Loft Literary Center, Minnesota’s mecca for writers. The event—which celebrated Mark Gustafson’s new book, Sowing Seeds—examined the origins of this literary center and how it emerged from a group of young writers in the 1970s. They were eager for a gathering space away from the traditional (and oftentimes stilting) academic setting, so they started a poetry club in the loft above their friend’s bookstore in Minneapolis. Over time, the group grew, and what started as religious recitations of Pablo Neruda’s poems turned into a place for sharing their works, turned into evening classes, turned into year-long writing programs and activities and, eventually, one of the largest independent literary centers in the country.
Sitting there, surrounded by primarily older folks, I was surprised by the comradery among the crowd. Friends reconnecting after decades, hands raised to contribute another memory, and a woman who quietly stood up in the middle of the reading to cross the room and greet an old friend. The conversation never strayed to the present. They weren’t there to preach or give advice to the youth, or tell us what’s wrong with the world today. Instead, through their recollections of how they found each other—their shared anti-war sentiments and disdain for stuffy academic institutions—I saw a reflection of what I and many new writers face today. This older generation of writers spotted a hole in the literary world and created a community to fill it.
Community spaces for poets are out there, even more now than ever in our digital age. I would encourage you to seek them out. Yes, being a new poet and getting your name out there requires you to participate in competitive systems (and there are parts of being a writer that you just have to do yourself). But you can also achieve the same result and, oftentimes, even more with the support of other writers who are just as passionate as you; with those who are in the same boat and share the same insecurities.
As an editor, I want to help you understand the system if you’re new and help you figure out what you want to get out of it. Because there is a place for you in the literary landscape, even if it may not be here. The literary world has many amazing opportunities and avenues for you to explore. Getting published doesn’t have to be the end goal. Just like how poems aren’t restricted by grammar or structure, being a poet should allow you the fluidity to write without having to be concerned with whether the poem is “publishable.”
So much of being an emerging poet (and I would still consider myself as one) feels competitive, like you’re competing against other voices to be seen and read. But I believe there’s significantly more value in having a community-forward mindset when it comes to writing. Everyone is in their own lane but shares the same aspirations. It is through collective spaces like The Loft, or online forums, or (hopefully) this magazine that shows the benefits of writing as a community rather than solely in solitude. I find myself more inspired now when attending readings and lectures, jotting down bursts of poetic lines in the margins of my notebook. My writing routine begins with an hour of reading before I pick up the pen or take to the keyboard to write. After all, innovation doesn’t happen in a vacuum.
While my great epiphany never came when I probably needed it the most, I would say it has come now after the four years it took me to arrive at a place of self-acceptance. My epiphany is realizing that one writer writing alone is limited to a legacy, but many writers writing towards a shared vision—of what they want to see more, of what is missing from the literary landscape—can create a literary movement.
As cheesy as this will sound, I would alter my parent’s advice to be this: “You can pursue whatever career you want in life—as long as you never lose your passion for it.”