Why I write
Someone asked me to give a personal view of my reasons to write, without any intentional strategy or advice towards a well payed career, with no recommendations to websites, videos, blogs, etc. A back to the basics that people who enjoy writing, just for the sake of it, may identify with. No pressure whatsoever. The idea was appealing to me, as a selfish person I saw this as an opportunity to squeeze in some self-reflective moment. It would have been easier in Portuguese, but since in English I write a lot more objectively — none of that flowery Portuguese stanza — it was the obvious medium to pick.
As this is supposed to reflect a very sincere conversation with myself — let’s not call it probing just yet — I feel obliged to tell the truth about writing in my life. Starting by dispelling any assumption on my wonder woman ability to find the time to write books, given the high demands of my daytime job. I cannot stretch time nor write that fast. Very often it’s just not possible. Guess what? That is ok, I have bills to pay, people to see, places to go. At present in my life, writing stands almost as a recurring whim, something I seem to do for no apparent good reason. Something never urgent, that can often be pushed back, albeit not something I can quit. Even when I do have spare time, I don’t always write. Weeks go by without me even picking up the proverbial white feather, let alone use it. For a myriad of reasons, where lack of privacy takes center stage. I need to enter my bubble, the world where I am, and feel, all alone with my thoughts. Maybe that means I am not a writer, maybe that means I am not gifted, but I am not trying to be anyone else.
I write because I feel compelled. Novels, short stories, poetry, etc. I don’t think my life is all that extraordinary and I am not going for self promotion. When I first started writing diaries (pretty much since I can write) I thought they would be the basis for my memoirs, I would become a famous important person and surely the world would want to know how it all started. Nowadays I know my life is not all that interesting to anyone beyond my close circle of loved ones. The diaries bring me no profit beyond helping me understand my feelings and cope with life events. They give me perspective on my growth as a person. When I am no longer alive, it is comforting that they may also help those who loved me cope with my death. I expect my dramatic hot headed diary entries will create a lot of anger until people accept them for fleeting outbursts of anxiety.
The creative writing is a different story… I had to be a lot more intentional to keep that in my life, because I was also not able to quit but struggled to get anything coherent finished. I found that a goal, or sometimes a feeling (anger works wonders) made me stick to it, to make me compromise to a longer term task such as a novel. I think about people or things that are important to me, and write with them in mind, write for them. That grounds me and gives me a soft deadline, as I start envisaging what I want and where my writing is going. Yes, it also adds another dimension to the problem: now I need to find the time AND the emotional head space. If it sounds like very hard work, it’s because it is. Nonetheless, once my heart is in it the story starts writing itself in my head and I push through it. I do become a wonder woman of sorts, one that does not earn Pulitzers but is free to fly if she wants to.
Do I write for money? No. Would I? Yes, I would love if it could help pay my bills. For now, I have taken no major steps in that direction. In fact, I opted out of any potential profit from my first novel, and I have made a lot of my writing freely available online. At present it is simply an emotional investment. When I get a new read or a new follower to my public stories, the pleasure is only personal. Like I made a new friend.
