Like most unpublished writers, I wonder if my work will ever be good enough to publish, if it will ever climb the thorny tree of bestseller lists, if it will stay in the minds of readers and make them think, want to revisit the worlds I’ve created.
Sometimes, I think it would be better if I simply wrote for myself and not be subjected to the sinister criticisms of those who think they know best; to keep my work to myself. I wonder if it is worth the nerve-trembling angst of wondering if anyone will like the stuff I produce or even if I should care.
Why should I bother exposing disguised inner truths to world? Why should I let people see into me and nod sagely with patronising understanding and gleeful knowledge? Why should I allow others to see the crushing uncertainty and doubt? Why should any newly hatched and vulnerable writer put themselves through it, when all they need do is write in the silence of their own making?
What value is there in exposing heart and soul to an uncaring and selfish world, where cruel rejection awaits?
It is all so depressing, so tragic and so… unimportant.
I’ll be slack when it comes to writing; there are so many other things to do. And yet, I always return to the keyboard, pound away trying to write what going in my head, trying desperately to put down the images, the dialogue, the scenery and all that is detrimental, the doubts and fears, fade away under the weight of creating something new and different.
What inspires me to continue? Other writers; those who succeeded. Those fabulous worlds and characters and dialogues and plots and resolutions I didn’t see coming. The authors whose words are magic, whose books I return to. Not to seek to write something similar, but to feel the emotion of ‘I wish I could write like that’ or ‘that was amazing; I wonder…’ or even ‘damn, that gives me an idea’.
It is a long apprenticeship, this writing gig, but with those authors sitting on my shelves for inspiration, no manner of doubt or fear can stop me from writing just that little bit more. To know that as long as I practice, one day I might have someone think those same thoughts about my work. It is that one small and lonely thought in the wilderness that keeps me going: to maybe teach, albeit at a distance, a young reader that they, too, can make a difference in their writing; to be open to new ideas and thoughts and creativity.
And that, above all else, makes it worthwhile.
3 comments:
It's easier for me, I just want to tell a good story and have people read it. Since I don't pour much of myself in my writing, I'm probably less vulnerable.
Though of course, there are days when I think my writing sucks beyond repair. :)
I know I write - despite criticisms - because on the rare occassion that my story makes a reader cheer or laugh or cry, I want to do write like that again. I love finding those things in my writing, but I also like other people to enjoy them too. That makes it worth wading through criticism and editorializing meanies. At least that's what I tell myself :D
I think writers have to write, like pilots have to fly, or sailors have to be on the water. It's not just something we do, it's what we are and to hell with everyone else.
In the words of my mother: They can like it or lump it.
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