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?’