I’m Not a Writer. I’m a Wrathlete

How an Asian-American woman breaks the mold for the 21st century

In the middle of writing my book in 2022, I had an identity crisis and couldn’t continue. After lots of soul searching, I realized that I had bad grad school associations with the word “writer.” I pivoted and became a writing athlete, a wrathlete. 

The Patriarchal Writer Stereotype

According to writer lore, to be a “real writer,” you had to be miserable. You had to chain-smoke Luckies, mainline black coffee, and baptize your demons in bottom-shelf scotch. Your studio had to be a filthy hovel, your relationships had to be a disaster, and your liver had to be waving a little white flag of surrender. Creativity was born from suffering, and the goal was to die tragically, leaving a beautiful corpse and a messy manuscript.

This archetype I bought into hook, line, and sinker is based on the canon of dead white male writers I studied during my MFA at the University of Iowa, the holy grail of American letters. The program was basically a shrine to the holy trinity of toxic masculinity: Bukowski, Henry Miller, Hemingway, etc. with a few ladies thrown in. Worshipping these sexist artists meant that I was following a white supremacist gold standard. But in the twenty-first century that I was writing in, that broken model no longer applied.

“As an Asian woman trying to cram myself into that broken mold, it was devastating.”

I tried to drink and smoke and isolate my way to genius, and all I got was profoundly depressed, creatively constipated, and sick as a dog. I lost my voice, my joy, and my damn mind. It took me thirty years—thirty years!—to scrape that bullshit off my shoes and figure out my own path.

Solution: Do the Opposite of White Dudes

So I started respecting my body. This means that I train for writing like an athlete trains for a marathon. I lift weights and strength train not for vanity, but for stamina. A strong core and back are non-negotiable for the physical act of sitting and focusing for hours on end. I strengthen my arms and shoulders to withstand the repetitive stress of typing, to avoid the injuries that once sidelined me. This isn’t vanity; it’s practicality. 

“Writing is a blue-collar job of the mind that demands a fit and capable body.”

The wrathlete in me understands that writing isn’t some ethereal act of waiting for a muse to descend from the heavens. That’s a luxury for privileged. Writing is hard, physical labor. Typing for ten hours a day requires training. Holding your entire body and mind in a state of laser focus for days on end is supremely athletic. Especially at midlife, your back will scream, your wrists will seize up, and your spirit will quit before the book is done.

The Body Drives the Pen

So I train for it. I weight lift. I build strength in my back and core so I can sit for hours without my spine collapsing into a question mark. I strengthen my arms and shoulders so I can type like a demon without getting another repetitive stress injury. I fuel my body with real food, not just caffeine and regret. I have a therapist to strengthen my mind, a spiritual practice to feed my soul, and a community to hold me up. This isn’t self-care; this is strategic preparation for the long game of a writing life.

My new practice was doing the exact opposite of what those white male literary figures preached. Their model was about burning out in a glorious, dramatic flash. Mine is about building a sustainable fire that can burn for a lifetime.

Tough Chinese Roots

And nobody knows the long game better than the Chinese. We have a 5,000-year head start. While those guys were busy burning out in a glorious, drunken blaze, my ancestors were building a civilization that understood endurance. This isn’t a sprint; it’s a marathon measured in dynasties. My creativity isn’t drawn from a bottle; it’s drawn from that deep, ancient well. It’s in my blood and my bones.

“So I’m not a writer. I’m a wrathlete. I’m in training. I’m building a body of work that requires a body that works. “

I’m not here to die for my art. I’m here to be so strong, so resilient, so freaking healthy that I outlive all my critics and write their obituaries. And they will be beautifully crafted, grammatically perfect, and typed with these powerful, wrathletic arms.