The passion and pain of writing
The passion and pain of writing
From vanity to authenticity
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OK, take it away, Brenda!
The passion and pain of writing
Vanity publishers. Tsk, tsk. We shake our heads knowingly. We would never succumb to their siren’s song just to see our name in print. Yet we face this stigma from the moment we reveal to others that we write. The realm of the written word is tricky. The periphery is safe ground. You’re a publisher? Fine job. Editor? What skill. Reporter? How exciting, what do you cover?
But move to the nucleus of creating the written word and risk the tension. Writer? Really, what do you write? Have you sold much? (Smirk—who does she think she is? Probably has illusions of being JK Millionaire.) We’re put on the defensive. We must justify our passion by shouting, ‘But I’m published!’ (Wide-eyed turn of the head—well, I’ve never heard of her.)
Ah, not me, we might say, I don’t write just to see my name in print. See the proof: I use a pseudonym. Or, perhaps, the pseudonym was created because we felt ourselves so clever that we could craft a name that would sell—in big, bold, take up half the book cover letters sell—better than the name fate had cast upon us with its lack of market-savvy. Isn’t it all about selling our words?
Somewhere in the writer’s transformation into salesman, the written work itself has become nearly inconsequential. It has taken second seat to the numbers. It is not whether we write well, but how well we market what we write. This transformation has shifted the balance of the writer and his writing. His work. His craft. His art. Of course, there is a whirl of literary criticism behind the question of textual autonomy, but at the forefront lies the more primary question of why we write. Why are we seen as vain, even by ourselves at times, merely because we have something to say?
Haven’t we all suffered the self-doubt that comes from the manuscript ignored, the competition not won, the proposal rejected? It’s hard to remain objective and convince ourselves that our pitch was simply not the right one at the right time. No matter how professional we are, there’s always a tinge of frustration. But I thought it was great. What if my judgment isn’t good enough? What if I’m not good enough? Oh no, I am vain after all. Are we just celebrity wannabes? Worse yet, do we have illusions of being a cut above the doe-eyed movie stars? Are we secretly aching to be in the elite club of cerebral celebrities?
One day, my young son was explaining something to his younger sister, whose attention wandered. Suddenly, he broke off and wailed with pure despair, ‘Why won’t you listen to me?’ He had unwittingly captured the frustration of a writer whose words flutter away with no reception.
I was reminded of my standard opening lecture as a teacher of English writing classes. Imagine, I tell my students, you’ve just learned you received that promotion at work you’d been hoping for. What do you do? Say ‘okay, thanks,’ and get back to work? What is that impulse bubbling inside? My students inevitably answered, ‘Tell someone!’
It is at the very base of human nature to communicate that which moves us. Even the proverbial caveman in his quest for food, clothing, and shelter, made time for cave drawings. No doubt some rich stories were shared around campfires, but their ephemeral nature was not enough to satiate his need to communicate in a tangible manner.
The most compelling characteristic of the writer is having something to say. As writers, we no doubt enjoy the labour of the writing process. Like doing a jigsaw puzzle, the very act of doing is a delight in itself. But when the last piece is completed, that fundamental drive to share, to communicate, comes bubbling to the surface. Who can nonchalantly just shove the jigsaw pieces back into their box? We leave the completed project out to gaze upon, to share, even to frame.
When our thoughts and creations are ignored or rejected it is not vanity that sours our soul, but our honest frustration wailing, ‘Why won’t you listen to me?’ When, however, our thoughts and creations are well-received, we rightfully feel not so much pride, but satisfaction. We’re fulfilled in our image of someone sitting on a train with our words in hand, that someone nodding his head saying, ‘Yes, isn’t that so true?’
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 | A guest post by
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Thank you for putting this unarmed truth out there. I’ve been struggling lately because I’ve been wondering if my writing matters, is there an impact? I don’t care if the only impact is pure entertainment, it doesn’t have to be profound. It’s the whole marketing thing that is so discouraging. I can take the difficulty of writing, re-writing, editing, criticism, heck I tell everyone who reads/edits my work to “edit without mercy!” Because I want the best story and have had to “kill my darlings” a number of times. But then when it’s done, final, finito! I get that wonderful moment of joy followed by the long hours of the dread of book marketing 🤮.
I’m an extrovert, so I love readings, Q&A, I’ve done 20+ podcasts and I can even, now after a lot of practice, stand the sound of my own voice and see myself on video without cringing. But then I make the content and it stays on my phone because the thought of social media and self promotion makes me 🤢.
And the worst part is it’s taking the joy out of writing because I know at the end of the difficult but satisfying journey of FINISHING a work, I have to promote it. I know I’m a good storyteller and I have interesting and complicated characters, but maybe it’s my ego that I want others to enjoy it too. I don’t need to hear how wonderful I am but I do want to know my readers enjoy playing in the world I created. Maybe my success in business has somehow compromised my expectations in writing. In business I know my formula for success. There is a 1+1=2, for me. But in writing? It is so subjective. So random. So chaotic. It’s like we have to pray to Fortuna 🙏🏼. But writers cannot be manufactured, and you cannot really even buy your way in, as my best friend said, “writers must be discovered.” So as I sit in obscurity asking the same question “why is no one listening to me?” Perhaps this is the Universe’s way of asking me, “How badly do you want this writing thing?” And just like everything else I’ve done in life, I guess I have to throw myself 100% at it with relentless pursuit and focus on the process rather than the outcome. It’s very frustrating. 🤦🏻♂️ Can anyone else relate?
Absolutely, Chris! Is it because we so believe in the text itself that we feel it shouldn’t need to be product of the hard sell?