The Writer’s Life: Kate Nordbye

This original essay from Kate Nordbye, is part of a series of essays from the writers of The Portland Fiction Project.  You can read more of Kate’s work here, and check out our interview with her here.

There are several ways to go about this.

The first way happens when you read this piece and shortly thereafter conclude that I am a writer. Perhaps this happens somewhere around the third paragraph, when someone in the next room, maybe your mother or boyfriend or wife will say, “What are you up to?” And you will answer, “Just reading an article by some writer in Portland.” And then they’ll say, “Sounds interesting,” Which, obviously it will be, but more importantly, you will have called me a writer. Which, let me clearly state now, is my main objective.

Just so you know.

But this option has a few complications. The first is that you might not read this – or you might start to read it, and get lost/disinterested/distracted because let’s be honest – I use a lot of run on sentences, poor grammar, and dashes. But the point is; you never get to the third paragraph, and by the time your mother/boyfriend/wife asks you what you’re doing, you say something wholly unrelated to me such as, “browsing the internet or mowing the lawn or eating a pineapple,” which, as stated, has nothing to do with calling me a writer.

Which, just so you know, is what I’m looking for.

The second option is to have something published and have The New York Times and Oprah praise me endlessly as the next great American author. And then you conclude that I am a writer.

The third is that I just tell you that I am a writer and you conclude that I am a writer because I have an honest face and wouldn’t make something like that up.

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Portland, is a city of artists. Or at least it is now. But it didn’t used to be – at least in my recollection. In my memory of childhood, Portland was about learning to read/going to kindergarten/learning to read some more/learning a little math, which was gross/how to ride a bike/let’s try some soccer out/that went well, let’s try pole-vaulting/ bad idea, go back to the soccer/first dances/can you do the tootsie roll?/no/learning to write/learning to drive/that’s a cute boy – oh no, I’m graduating? Seriously? I have no idea what to do with my life/guess I’ll go to college/this degree is nice, but who hires people with anthropology majors?/I’m a social worker now, but last week at a bridal shower a woman told me I wasn’t a “real” social worker, because I didn’t have a master’s degree, which is true, but anyways, I’m a social worker/ but also, honestly, I think I’m a writer- but at what point is someone a writer? I mean, I want to call myself a writer, but I’m not sure when I get to do that? And who decides, and is it enough to only self-define, or do you need to earn an income to be one? And ok, I’m getting a little depressed, does that make me a writer?/or do I need to be published?/but like, not in a blog published, right?/ and I join a writing group (plug: PortlandFiction.net) and start doing readings/ and does that make me a writer, now?

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“So, what do you do?” Cute boy at a house party with chin stubble, holding a PBR asks over the music.

“I’m a social worker,” I pause to see if I have enough courage, which I do, thank you whiskey, “and, I’m a writer.”

I wait for the effect….

…Still waiting….

…And….

“That’s cool. But isn’t everyone in Portland?”

Wait, what?

Turns out, when I wasn’t looking, Portland went and became a city of artists/musicians/poets/writers/I’ve got a new installation going up/and-by-the-way-everyone-here-really-is-a-writer-and-probably-better-than-you/so-stop-calling-yourself-a-writer-kate (as apparently everyone knows my name enough to reject me in my head).

And suddenly, despite all aspirations and general good self-esteem, I suddenly feel like I don’t fit it. At all. In my own city. I feel like a two-bit magic act with no shows scheduled and no actual tricks, just a good costume. Except not even that; I look down at my far-too-normal clothes and tattoo-less arms and feel exposed for what I am. A-not-a-writer-pretending-to-be-a-writer-around-real-writers-who-see-right-through-me. And I’m not cool enough. I don’t even smoke, which, everyone knows, is what writers are supposed to do along with drinking too much (check).

So I just say something derogatory about tight jeans and PBR and excuse myself.

Still, there’s something that nags about not saying that I’m not a writer. Something that feels false, or disingenuous – like I’m lying to people because I told them that their boyfriend was an asshole, but what I honestly should have told them was a story about a heart that keeps falling out of a chest no matter how many times you try to push it in because it just doesn’t fit. And that that is more honest, and that writer or not, I have to be a writer.

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Even if I suck. And that is the hardest part; pursuing something you respect and hold so close to your heart. Even if you suck. Even if you suck; to count yourself among great names and great works and to stand, even at a distance, in their shadows. But still you do it, I do it. Even in the chance that I might suck.

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It’s highly possible that I might suck, but that’s not the point, so don’t get distracted by that thought.

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I get a phone call:

“Hi, this is a law enforcement agent and I’m looking for Kate Nordbye. I’m outside your apartment with armed police.”

“Armed publishers?”

“No, police.”

Dammit. Pause. “Why?”

“Someone wrote on a piece of paper at a restaurant that you had been kidnapped and you’ve been placed on a missing person’s list. We need to confirm your identity and that you’re not a missing person.”

“What?”

Apparently, I had been the victim of an “identity” prank, and was now on a missing person’s list. But unfortunately I wasn’t home to prove how unkidnapped I was,“I’m not home! Can I meet you somewhere – I can drive home?”

Instead he wants to meet at a Burger King. Which felt kind of weird, and as I drove over, I started to wonder how legitimate this could be, and what does identity mean anyway, and what is the self but a collection of…

There he is. Middle of the parking lot. I pull over and get out of my car.

He shows me his identification, seems legit, and asks for a sample of my handwriting. I dig through my bag that has scraps of paper that say things like, “during breakfast there are less eggs than people”- you know, story ideas- and hand him something. I think from my planner.

He confirms that the handwriting wasn’t mine, and that I wasn’t missing, and that this all must have been some weird hipster prank. And before he goes he says, “You know, I thought it might have been you, though. I Googled your name and saw that you were a writer and thought you must be one of those writer types doing a social experiment or something.”

I look up at him from my tan Century Buick that I’ve already climbed back into. Dreamy eyed, “You think I’m a writer?”

He totally thinks I’m a writer.