Spotlight: Gracie Bialecki. Creativity is not Martyrdom
When I first moved to Paris, I found a library near my apartment and vowed to write there every day. I’d quit my job and my new one was to finish my novel, get it published, and be a real writer. At gorgeous historical libraries, bags, food and even water are forbidden, and I’d bury my distracting cellphone and computer in their mandatory lockers before submerging myself in a silent reading room.
I’d write by hand in notebooks for hours, break for lunch, take out my laptop, WiFi pre-turned off, and type up my morning’s work. Most days, I’d leave feeling exhausted and vaguely hopeless, though I told myself the more down-trodden I felt, the more I accomplished.
“Why am I writing if it makes me feel lonely and sad? Why am I writing if it isn’t fun?“
Back in New York, I had run a poetry night at the secret bookstore my friend had in his apartment. Yes, it was as magical as it sounds. Another artist friend had torn a hole in the wall of her apartment, and we’d turned it into a gallery with an accompanying storytelling series. I knew creating spaces for people to interact and share their work felt as good, if not better, than anything I’d achieved in my own writing.
But when I moved to Paris, I wasn’t interested in the open mics or events put on by the raucous ex-pat literary community. I had a novel to finish and an agent to find. I set myself deadlines to send drafts to my readers back in New York. And when I finally started the self-esteem crushing process of querying, no one was interested — the manuscript I’d slaved away on was fundamentally unmarketable.
“Another artist friend had torn a hole in the wall of her apartment, and we’d turned it into a gallery with an accompanying storytelling series.”
Through the forced march of my first novel, I kept the freedom of my spoken word poetry. Whenever I finished a new piece, I’d go to the open mic to recite it, and gradually, against my best efforts, I started to meet other Paris writers. My poetry sustained me, and when I decided to stop sending emails into the abyss of literary agents, I started working on a book of my poems and my long-time friend’s photos. Instead of my novel being published, I put out Youth, a project that was entirely my own and it brought the joy back into making art.
Now, when people ask my least favorite question — how’s the writing going? — I talk about Youth and how I couldn’t imagine my poems without the photos. I talk about a poetry correspondence me and my one of my best writer friends have maintained for the past six months. At the end of a long journey my first novel, Purple Gold, was published by ANTIBOOKCLUB, a New York based small press. But when I start talking about that, I find myself talking about my novel writing group, and how our meetings inspire me to work on my second book. I talk about the other writers in Paris and how we find ways to come together and support each other. I tell people it’s so much easier to create with other artists alongside me.
Gracie’s novel, Purple Gold, is available here
Creativity is not martyrdom and writing is not solitude. These days I make time for fellow writers and prioritize collaborative projects over my library regimen. Why am I writing if it makes me feel lonely and sad? Why am I writing if it isn’t fun?
In April, I was scheduled to embark on a poetry tour with Paris Lit Up which might have replaced Burning Man as the most bad-ass thing I’d ever done. With the global pandemic, the tour was cancelled, and we’re making the most of the situation by launching various virtual projects. Despite the strange times, all the platitudes about community have stopped being clichés now that I’m back in one. I’m grateful to have banded together with a group of fellow artists, and whatever happens in the next couple of months, I know I won’t be alone.
Check out Gracie’s Website here