Why I write

I love art and music. I play the piano and actually have frequent opportunities to use that ability in a nonprofessional way—I teach piano to my kids, I play for the children’s organization for church, and sometimes friends ask me to accompany their instrumental or vocal solo. I find it calming and fulfilling to bang out songs on the piano for which I have no public venue. Likewise, I love drawing and painting, and while I do like to share what I’ve done, I can find immense satisfaction in the painting itself. Paintings are one-time things where people walk in, see it, process an emotional reaction in a matter of minutes, and can fill fulfilled. I don’t feel the urge to exhibit professionally; I can get my satisfaction out of what I create in my own kitchen. It’s a hobby that makes me very happy.

But I have entirely professional feelings towards writing. You can’t read a novel in a matter of minutes; a person can’t walk in your house, see the spine of a book you have written, and instantly connect on the other end of the emotional information you are sending out. They have to spend time reading it. Hopefully, they understand what you are trying to say and connect with it in some way. So when I read comments meant to cheer up discouraged writers, I don’t always agree. Yes, remember the joy you get in writing. That high of creation is hard to replicate, it’s true. Yes, remember that the reception of your writing is not the same as your worth as a person. Yes, recognize that sometimes you need to take a break—from querying, from writing, whatever—to fill the well and balance yourself and gain strength. But writing is not a hobby for me. It’s something to which I’ve addressed my full, professional attention. I’ve done more research, more education, more reading, and definitely more writing in this field than I ever did for my master’s degree. Add to that the fact that for me, anyway, writing is a two-way street—part of a story is the net the writer throws out, and part of it is what the reader allows to be caught in that net. I notice this even in critiques—readers always bring something new to the story, often things that are surprising to the writer. I want someone to find the message in the bottle I threw into the ocean; find it and read it and realize, "Hey, I’m not alone! Maybe there is someone else on another deserted island who feels just like me." And the way to do that is to somehow get copies of your book to more people that you know personally. That’s the point of publishing. (Which, if you notice, is not the same thing as "having written a book" and "being famous.")

So no, please don’t tell me that “at least you have the satisfaction of having written a novel. Many people want to, and never do!” That’s like telling a lawyer who doesn’t have a practice that they should feel satisfied pretending to practice law at home. Or telling a teacher without a job to have fun lecturing the house plants. Or an academically intellectual person with a thirst for knowledge that an online degree based on “life experience” is good enough. Maybe I’m deluded, but I want the real thing. Which is why I keep writing.

ETA: I don't have a problem with someone else viewing writing as a hobby. Or lecturing house plants. There are professional artists who would never be satisfied with what I do with art. That's fine! We don't all have to be professional at everything. But I'm willing to bet that everyone has *something,* whether it's something you can be paid at (lawyer) or something you don't (decorating your house) where it MATTERS to you if you do it right or not. This just happens to be mine.