May 18, 2024
This is true: Sometimes, I have to remind myself why I keep writing. Face it, writing requires long hours that could be spent in more relaxing pursuits. It requires a high level of skill and discipline, and the end product does not always match the perceived level of effort I put into it. For many writers, the financial rewards can be quite limited, and the recognition difficult to come by. The publishing marketplace is so crowded, it’s not always easy or even possible to obtain publication of your work. Even when it does reach an audience, the result can be unpredictable and even painful to behold, as haters aren’t shy about sharing their opinions. When all is said and done, it often feels like the writing life is a “one step forward, three steps back” proposition with no clear-cut way forward or guarantee of success.
It’s no surprise, then, that I ask myself again and again just why I continue to write. Sometimes, the question will well up when I’m at the keyboard, struggling with an unruly passage. Sometimes, it will interrupt my sleep, haunting me in the middle of the night. Other times, it will come up over me at the end of an especially difficult or unrewarding day in the trenches…or an especially wonderful one.
When it does, I often find myself wandering down convoluted paths, considering complex justifications. I second-guess and third-guess myself, testing my resolve and rationalizations. Always, the possibility exists that I will finally give it up, that I will conclude it is doing me no good and it’s time to cut it loose.
Yet, always, I end up deciding I can never give up…not because I’m empty without writing or afraid of what my life might become in its absence.
The reason I can’t give it up is that I love it. I’m wired in such a way that it brings me joy and satisfaction in spite of the toll it takes on certain aspects of my life. Even when the work is hard and the rewards and recognition are slim, the thought of stopping the practice is unbearable. Perhaps this is because I’ve become an addict, dependent on a routine and a dream that forever remain tantalizingly out of reach. Maybe I’m just afraid to face life without it, to surrender and admit defeat after so many years of striving.
Or maybe, I like to think, it’s because the act of creation makes me feel most alive, even when the obstacles in the way of what is essentially an act of faith and magic are at their most insurmountable and discouraging.
