When I was in the eighth grade a teacher informed the class that I would “probably become a writer”. This was, as he informed the class, not due to any ability I had to write, but was because I was not a popular child. Of course the rest of my class found this comment amusing to the point of hilarity, popularity being one of the key components that an eighth grader tries to encourage growth in. Mr. Wilson said this to me, in front the class, in such a direct fashion, but without a hint of malice, that it seemed to just flow in front and around me like the logical conclusion it was. I recall that I could only shrug and sigh and say, “Yup. That’s true”.

What I said “true” to was not the fact that I harbored any intentions to write, or to become a writer. (Note that he didn’t say a great writer. This was, after all, an English class and Mr. Wilson was an English teacher so he had no doubt noticed that my language was probably, like, totally terrible.) What I said “true” to was the fact that I wasn’t popular. It was a fairly defining moment when I realized that it wasn’t just I who could see that I was lacking whatever currency I needed, in attitude or clothing, to attain popularity, but that other people, no less authority figures, could see that as well.

Of course, looking back on it now, it wouldn’t take much information for an adult, let alone a high school teacher, to gather some fairly astute reconnaissance about which teens are more bound for the in-crowd than others. Although I was internally bound to the idea that my humor or creativity would pull me further up the neon tower, the echelons of high school social life eluded me. I was, and probably still am, just acting my act as far as puberty would allow me. I still ate candy and had toys and my fashion sense had not yet become brand-aware (yet, paradoxically “cool” at the same time).

Let me rewrite that previous statement with a slight alteration actually: I am still acting my act as far as my maturity will allow. I still eat candy and I still have toys and I am very brand-aware, and even though that awareness is presently far more inverted it is still troubled.

I can’t say for sure that Mr. Wilson was correct. I am not sure that I am a writer. I do write as in, I will use the tiny little pictures we call letters to try and transmit ideas, but I’m not sure if I would call myself a writer. Even though I have two publications to my name, one of which is entirely made out of words and a handful of self-published books that are also entirely words.

The other published book is almost entirely pictographic. There are maybe three words in the whole thing including the title.

I like working with graphics and words, though I feel that my approach to both is exactly the same, so in a sense, they are not different from one another. I like messages conveyed articulately, and I like things to be plain. Although I am a voracious reader, I mostly read non-fiction, and though I studied to be an abstract painter, I mostly work with graphics now. Since both fields are generally supposed to be stripped of romanticism (in practice) I don’t even feel that I’m equipped well enough to understand the concerns that, stylistically and formally, writers (at least the ones that I know) tend to be concerned with. Even now as I am writing a children’s book, I have never been so flummoxed.

Writers speak of language in a way that I only vaguely sense, the way a child senses adulthood. In the same seduction I see writing (you know, real writing) as something burnished and true, full of mysteries and joys and morasses that are possibly too complex for me to understand at this juncture. It’s the very same with me and other adult sensory pleasures. Like wine-- I have never gotten the taste for it. I prefer Coca-Cola if given a choice. When people talk about Hemingway, I know he was a fisherman (I think) but I would much rather talk about Archie Comics. (I realize that that list of preferences practically makes me sound like I’m in eighth grade now)

So I will read Hemingway and drink a bit of wine but they don’t adhere to me. (That alone possibly being the obiter dicta of this entire post.)

Which in its essence, is perhaps all I really needed to say. That being the one thing I search for in every practice I do: trimming off all the flowers save the one that yields the most. (Note to editor: use that sentence, delete the rest.)

If Mr. Wilson was correct that unpopularity creates writers out of people then I am sure that we all have enough tools to all become writers. Pain, whether being about popularity or not, is universal. Emotions will trump social calendars when the need for expression is present. But being in the eighth grade I would never have paired being lugubrious with being creative. That was just reasoning beyond my scope and a conclusion that I’m not even sure I agree with now.

So though I do write, whether or not I am a writer is still not apparent to me nor even that important. But if I am a writer what is the way to become a great writer? If by happenstance and social position I have become this predicted writer then, out of sheer curiosity, what would it take to become a wine amongst colas?

I think Mr. Wilson’s answer would be that I must be an unpopular writer. If that is the case then well, by god, I must be incredible.

Chris von Szombathy is a visual and audio artist/art director living in Vancouver. He is currently published by Drawn & Quarterly and is working on his first book with Simply Read. He has also appeared in publications by Publication Studios, TVBooks, Gestalten and Anteism. His work has been shown in galleries in Vancouver, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Madrid, Manchester and Edinburgh and he has been nominated for a Leo Award, a Western Canadian Music Award and a Pigskin Peters Award. His music and visual work has appeared globally in various permanent and disposable media including magazines, television, podcasts, standard and internet radio and video productions. Please see his website for further details.