So last night an old friend who is an excellent albeit tortured writer sent me an essay by another old friend who is an excellent albeit tortured writer [when you've been to two creative writing graduate programs you tend to know a few], an essay that is making the rounds, and by this I mean shared on Facebook, twitted / tweeted, and for all I know - photocopied and distributed in those Freshman Creative Writing Workshops that seek to instill in young minds the value of Finding Your Voice and Creating an Arc and the Importance of Literature - even when said students are in reality typing the sort of vampire stories that makes Twilight look like Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.I won't reproduce the original essay here, but suffice to say it contained many, many paragraphs with many, many words. Let me sum it up: Once you're on your third or fourth or fifth novel, why keep doing it? What's the point? I'm an outsider so I know my experience is valid, but isn't it enough already? Yadda yadda Is it important? Yes, it must be to us but it's so hard and it makes me unhappy So why do we keep putting ourselves through it when it's so hard? Why? Why? Why, God, why?
The essay was followed by comments ranging from "shut up, whiner" to "OMG, that is so beautiful and so true and all that I believe...thank you." In short, they got all fired up, and doubtlessly fired up their Macbooks with new intent and purpose and belief in the healing power of the word and all that.
However, my primary thought was: "Why not? What else do you have to do?" I mean, American Idol is only on a few weeks a year, and despite my best efforts, I just can't get that worried about Project Runway. I'm deeply puzzled by the newly emerging sub-genre of Why I Continue to Write in 5000 Words or Less, as it is merely a tiny piddle from the wide river of Why I Write essays / books/ treatises that has flowed forth from the very gifted Anne Tyler to the stupendously mediocre Stephen King [who, in my opinion, should not be encouraged to add any more crap to his endless and annoying stream of idiotic non-books]. I've seen countless interviews about Why I Sit Down in Front of That Computer Every Day with women writers and men writers and African American writers and Indian American writers and Jewish writers and lapsed Catholics and even one I can recall with a half Brazilian / half Icelandic writer who theorized that she needed to "embrace all of her hot and cold culture." Fair enough, embrace away. But the sad truth is that I don't care why anyone writes. I care about what they write. In the immortal words of a great Nike copywriter who was probably underpaid for this line: Just. Do. It. Why you write is really only important to you.
How do I know this? Because a few years ago I decided to stop writing. Oh I know, earthshaking news! Except not really. There is more to the story, of course, and I'd be happy to retell it but frankly it makes me nod off. You know, failed novel, enviable awards to finish the failed novel, inability to get it right, pressure from teachers, fellow writers, friends - that humorless Death March to Publication that buzzes in your ear like the Great Gazoo: "how's that novel coming?" I hated it but I felt I didn't have a choice. I was an artist, I had to create. They said. They all said. Well pooh on that, I decided. I didn't have to do a thing but pay taxes and die. I moved to Seattle and met my wonderful Hapa Boy. I enjoyed life. I learned about video games. I went to movies in English. That's right, Dear Readers. I shucked the Mantel of Misery from my bowed shoulders and set forth to meet the world as a proud Un-Writer.
But then a funny thing happened. I realized that I was becoming kind of unhappy and restless. I was blogging, for heaven's sakes. What's up with that? I was writing long emails. I was, in short, doing every kind of writing except, uh, writing. Which why was I not doing again? Oh.
So I started working on a book, and I'm about halfway there. I won't say I can see clearly now the rain is gone I can see all obstacles in my way - I mean, I live in Seattle - but I can say why I forge ahead without musing about community and art and culture and what I have to share with humanity or a publisher waiting with baited breath for my incredible debut.
It's simple: I write because I'm happier when I write than when I don't write. That's why all writers write. We like it. I like the little clickity clack of my typing fingers. I love when I get that lift, that energy, that orgasmic buzz that comes from writing a really sharp little sentence. That's cool, I think. I wrote that. Look how cool I am, writing a little sentence like that! Nifty. Then I like taking out a word and then putting it back. It's fun. I imagine when I finish this book - whether I publish it or not - I'll start something else. But first I'll probably enjoy the same feeling of accomplishment that my mountain climber friend had when he summited Everest. I mean, the best thing about a long climb up is when you get there, you're there. And what the hell, it's a pretty nice view.
