Angel Luis Colón

I don’t keep it a secret that I failed out of my second choice college spectacularly. I got into every school I applied for, broke my ass, and then burned out hot as a supernova. This would also lead me to good things later in life, but my my twenties – fuck me if they weren’t pathetic.

I always tell folks the lesson: don’t let an 18 year old who hangs out in the Village loose with the Village as his campus.

Seriously, the semester and a half I spent at NYU was a disaster.

That said, with hindsight, there’s more to just a hardy-har-har story about being a teenage idiot (but bear with me, being a teenage idiot was something I excelled at).

We need to dig into the whys. Like, why did I get into all five colleges I applied to? Well, obviously my grades. I was in the top 10-20 in my school throughout my academic career. I wasn’t kind nerd of book mountain, but I was certainly a book smart kid. And that’s fine.

Problem 1, though? I was poor as fuck.

So that meant grants. I earned a few. Got a little scholarship here and there too, but none of it was enough to carry me through four years at an Ivy League. That was until I was offered an opportunity at NYU – a program built to help Hispanic (I know, I hate that word) students get a fair shake.

And me, in my excellent teenage stupidity, I fucking HATED that program. I hated that I had to play the marginalized card. That I was, in my mind, segregated in a way. I was “special” because I wasn’t the same as some of my classmates – students there on mommy & daddy’s dime.

Now I realize that hate, that intense lashing out which would lead to me wasting a FREE FUCKING RIDE AT AN IVY LEAGUE COLLEGE, was entirely rooted in self hatred and indoctrination of that hate born out of a lifetime of private school and a system built too make me hate myself for taking advantage of opportunities I would find out were CONSTANTLY afforded to those I wish I could be.

Told you, teenage stupidity would be fucking elite level here.

I don’t blame myself as much as I’m conveying, though. I understand we’re all learning and navigating our paths as best we can and its really only the benefit of experience that has taught me that the things I’ve learned and realized about my own identity are good no matter when I did realize them.

Which leads me to now. A marginalized writer navigating the waters of an industry that often “hints” at how much it despises me, a mouthy, know-it-all spic who can string a few words together in a way that satisfies a few people.

I’ve spoken before about the struggle I went through with using my real name, with leveraging who I was as a platform. For a while, it felt wrong and I couldn’t understand why. Why should it feel wrong to be me? Why should it feel wrong to admit that I’m one of maybe 3 (THREE) Puerto Ricans in my scene? Why should it feel wrong to not only question that but also ask for the ability to have my work amplified. Not for my own gain (I mean, come on, this is rarely a path to riches) but in order to show folks like me that yes, we can fucking do this? We can be funny. We can be poignant. We can be literary within genre even!

And at first, I followed the same path I did at NYU. I let people schmooze me in order to look good – to look woke. I fell into a few networking traps that benefit everyone but myself. That internalized shame and hatred was still very present and I’d done such an excellent job of shutting it away for so long that it very nearly ate me alive again. I wanted to shun the idea I was marginalized. How could I be? I was better than that.

I wish I could say that’s different now, but it isn’t. I struggle with this every single fucking day. I struggle with it when I label a piece #ownvoices or when I write something in a language people are literally harassed and beaten over. I struggle when I try to relate to my fellow Latinx writers, wondering if I even belong because of my own struggles with who I am and my mixed ethnicity. I struggle with how the mainstream sees me because there are expectations of my behavior – of HOW I say things versus WHAT I say. Do I speak truth or half-truth? Do I cater to my own feelings or do I cater to a group who see me only as an opportunity to make money or build their social cache?

I don’t have an answer and what I’ve learned is all I can do is continue learning and fight back the shame and self hatred. That path, that resolve, has weathered me into the beginning of my sixth year as a writer. That’s nearly ten times as long as I made it through my time at NYU.

Maybe I am doing something right. Definitely still a little bit of an idiot, but I’ll call it a win.

I took a break from writing, blogging, etc this year. Also decided to go on a podcast hiatus (the “finale” is coming soon – S.A Cosby. Good shit).

Anyway, that’s a quick summary. I did a lot this year. First novel. First anthology as an editor. A few short stories. Some bites on novels in query mode. Good stuff.

Still, I don’t feel like writing about all that or about what I liked or disliked.

I want to write about a few things I’ve learned this year. And when I say “learned” I mean information that I not only processed, but accepted and applied. So here’s my top 5 things I learned to better my own mental health over the course of the year and in no particular order.

1) My mental health comes first

A lot of folks would feel this goes without saying, but in practice, this can be difficult. Competing priorities, emergencies, and life events all get in the way of keeping your brain cobweb free. That said, I learned I had to make difficult choices sometimes in favor of my own brain. I could not let guilt or unearned obligation get in the way of what was best for me. That meant a few more lessons, but ultimately, I feel they helped push me towards better decisions overall.

2) My worth is not tied to the opinions of others, especially those who want my silence

I am outspoken. This is not a secret.

That said, in our writing scene there are many folks who treat me like shit because of it (while boosting the more agreeable folks, mind you).

This bothered me. Hell, it worried me. If I want success shouldn’t I stay quiet and do the same? Shouldn’t I be content to be the Puerto Rican they can boost to look good in front of each other while maintaining an air of safety and silence that lets them control my “brand” and message?

Maybe. I don’t know. What I do know is that those thoughts poisoned me and I’m done feeling bad for pointing out the wrong – and as an aside, I hate that the phrasing here makes me sound heroic, I don’t feel that way or see myself that way, but again, this aside is rooted in me trying to cover myself to comfort everyone but myself. See the problem there?

I’m proud of me. I’m proud of my talent. I’m proud to be multi-ethnic, and I’m certainly proud of being Puerto Rican. I am NOT proud that I spent years trying to do all of that on other peoples’ terms. And frankly, if you’re reading this and you’re one of those that have rolled your eyes at me or talked shit behind my back, that’s fine. Just do me a solid and eliminate yourself from my life. Not for my well being, but more for the fact that I’m truly working to call it all out as I see it and I’ve become exhausted of being polite. Think of it as a warning.

3) I love my writing

I started writing too finally feel like myself and it’s taken a very long time to land in a place where my writing FEELS like an extension of me. I wouldn’t say I’m 100% there yet or do I believe I’ll not evolve or change, but I do finally feel proud of my voice and my way of crafting narrative.

This year I had many moments where doubt crept in, though, but I’ve learned that I have so many options to get my work into the world that it’s almost robbing myself to feel down over rejection or failure. There’s a balance of self-confidence and open-mindedness I must maintain to ensure I put all my effort into writing and improving that writing. Getting in my feelings won’t do me any favors beyond building up a wall from reality.

4) I am not needed, and I need nobody (in writing)

This is broad and not nearly as worrying as it reads, but it’s a simple way of stating that it’s for the best to understand what I think I need is often only what I want. This also goes both ways.

There are things I want. There are those that want me. To convince myself that any of this will be NECESSARY is silly and driven by ego. I am very fortunate that anybody would even want my writing or my opinion on anything. I’ve learned to keep that in mind through all my endeavors.

The second half of that is more complicated, but I do know I am in a very good place with those I call friends and those I see as acquaintances at best. I’ve often had trouble separating those, but the past couple of years have given me a great amount of insight and I’m OK with knowing I don’t need to be close too everyone. There’s no time for that level of effort, especially with how often social media magnifies what would be a hollow relationship.

 

This went longer than I anticipated (again, writing break, I’m eager to type) but 2019 was a great fucking year. I feel energized and confident; more confident than I’ve felt in a long time. I sincerely hope all of you are in a good mental space as well.

Happy 2020,

Angel

 

I question my self worth daily.

Really, if I think about it hard enough, probably hourly. It’s especially exacerbated when you’ve got imposter syndrome, but when you’re coming from a marginalized community AND you’ve spent a lot of time outside of that community, well, it can be a little worse.

As I’ve continued my little journey into embracing who I am, I have found memories, little blemishes of moments where that self worth was always challenged in microscopic ways. Extra questions or looks. Strange exceptions made to process when in my case that would not have happened otherwise. A lot of times I chalked that up to issues with esteem or the imposter syndrome, but as I grow older and more assured that I should be very proud of who I am, I’ve begun to realize that there’s a level of gaslighting that happens to all of us that deeply makes its mark on us in utterly unknowable ways.

Then I get the bright idea and start writing. That’s a big help.

It’s easy to fall into the trap of constant worry when you write. You worry about the quality of your work. You worry about whether people will enjoy your work. You worry about whether anything you put together is sellable. And honestly, those are all valid concerns that should be considered. What isn’t normal, is whether you should worry that being yourself is a cause for anyone to, for lack of a better term, write you off or look down on you for entirely superficial reasons. You shouldn’t worry that the worth others see in you is entirely reliant on whether you enhance their worth. That’s inane and hurtful to everyone involved.

Because this happens. I see it first hand and I see it more now that I’ve really begun to find comfort in my identity. And as I find comfort in that identity and I find ways to bridge years and years of being ashamed of something because I was told I should be ashamed, I find myself questioning other aspects of the world I see around me. Questioning, though, is exhausting for all the wrong reasons. I don’t want to be tired from thinking about everything anymore. Posturing isn’t worth it.

I have absolutely no idea what I’m going to do next, but it won’t be words and it won’t be thoughts. I’ve spent enough time trying to convince people of my worth when it’s been utterly useless as minds were already made up. The time is right to focus on the things that make me happy and the things that I can be proud of doing for others.

One of the more, and I’m super hesitant to use this word but it’s appropriate, annoying aspects of pursuing a career (or second career) in writing are those moments when you have to decide on turning towards another destination.

It’s very obvious that writing is a risk for many reasons. You’re taking a very big chance on yourself and your abilities. From there, you’re hopeful other people will take those same chances. There are a lot of opportunities to slip, fall, learn, and screw up. That said, there are times where you need to identify what might be best for the project and not for your ego. As well written as anything we put together might be, sometimes those in the industry won’t respond to it – whether it’s because of market demands or a lack of relatability is all incredibly subjective.

This is an impossible field to predict and I think too often writers drive themselves insane over it.

Five years ago, I decided to pursue becoming a published writer. All this time later and I’ve certainly accomplished a lot for myself. Still, I’m a goal-oriented person and once I’ve climbed one mountain, I want to climb them all. I am never satisfied.

So what happens when all the work on a project musters no interest from agents or bigger publishers? It can be a difficult place to find yourself—especially as a marginalized writer uninterested in writing about marginalized pain on anyone else’s terms. Could I easily slap out some sad sack bullshit about growing up in the Bronx? Sure, but my heart wouldn’t be in that type of story. I’ve tried that path and it was painful and incredibly unfulfilling.

What’s come to help me is understanding that we have so many more options now. The loaded phrase “traditional publishing” is an albatross that too many writers hold in high esteem. There’s certainly merit in that route and we all want that route to be a path we follow, but we too often ignore all the little tributaries on that path. Artistic freedom—especially the freedom I want—cannot confine itself onto a straight path. I’d argue no writer has ever experienced that fantasy, but everyone’s mileage varies. I’m certain there are charmed people who have easily politicked their way onto a road of clear-sailing and more power to them.

Anyway, this rant isn’t mean to elicit pity or for me to wallow. I think I wanted to affirm my own commitment to my work and to getting it out in front of you fuckers by whatever means I can find. Everything else after that is icing on the cake.

Been a minute. I think it’s safe to say it’s been super busy.

I’m currently sitting on three complete novels. Shopping two and revising the hell out of one. It feels good to get work done. I’m out of whatever funk I had last year and looking forward to some short stories and the release of the anthology later this year (you preordered, right?).

Fun fact: last year, I was 100% going to quit this after HELL CHOSE ME dropped. Look at me now.

Even with all that accomplishment, it’s easy to find moments of doubt creeping in at the periphery. Are these projects good enough? Did I waste my time? Will anyone care? All questions every single writer asks but all easily the kinds that become internalized so much that they can stifle you completely. The downstream impact on other parts of your life can be awful as well. If you’re an imposter here, couldn’t you be an imposter anywhere?

I’ve written about this feeling before, but with some time between entries, I like to think I have a little more perspective now. These feelings aren’t going anywhere. They’re common, and maybe even a little healthy depending on how we manage them. Are they capable of placing us in a spiral? Sure, but any emotion can do that. What I’ve found works for me, though, is the acceptance of those emotions; the acceptance of how they can screw with me; and the acceptance that these come in ebbs and waves. This feeling will not last forever. That forward thinking, again for me, has helped me work through the complexities in a way that I’ve found to be healthy and less of a burden on those around me.

That said, it isn’t all internal management. I’ve learned to pull back on other things I know tend to flare up these problems. I no longer stretch myself as thin as I have in the past. I cut toxicity down as much as possible. The first sign of that shit, and I’m out now. There’s no more time to wade through other crap and there’s no point in spreading any of mine either. I used to think that was mean but realizing that I don’t want to be anyone’s crutch or whipping boy also made me realize that I need to be mindful of doing the same to others.

And bluntly, that’s one of the reasons I’ve changed how I approach writing events and conventions. It’s exhausting to be “on” all the time and it’s equally exhausting to feel alone in a room where folks interested in using marginalized people as props (or are equally empowered to look down on them) outnumber the friends. I can go deeper into all of that, but it also isn’t my job to uplift anyone who isn’t interested in being better. Folks need to clean their own houses and I’m no longer going to allow myself to be condescended to by anyone because it might affect my aspirations. That mindset pushed onto marginalized writers; the idea that we’ll be replaced with a more palatable member of our community whenever we speak out of turn or act of our own accord? Fuck that noise.

It may not sound like it, but I am more optimistic than I’ve been in a while. I’m on the agent search and I know that’s slow going. It isn’t affecting me like it has in the past, though, and I feel good about that. Folks are slowly turning on to HELL CHOSE ME and I feel a little vindicated in my book that nobody seemed to understand only a couple of years ago. I’m finding more confidence in my writing voice and no longer feel the pressure to match everyone else or find that “sweet” pitch. It’s not that I’m aloof about it now, I’m just cool with the wait.

I’m cool with the wait, because I don’t plan on quitting anymore. I don’t plan on letting that weird feeling that I’m not wanted in the room feel like a burden—it’s a gift.

Keep writing.