“Writing is torture. Not writing is torture. The only thing that feels good is having written”
A paraphrasing of some past Poet Laureate of the U.S.
I assume that most readers of Red Room blogs will understand.
“I’m going to finance my daughter’s college education on the profits from my novel.”
A paraphrasing of me, several years back. I’ve relinquished such fantasies of fame and fortune, as I’ve matured.
I hope that most readers of Red Room blogs understand this, too.
Even after all these years of writing and teaching the techniques of the Short Story, I must discipline myself to write. Often, the blank page glares back at me from my desk as if it were an opponent. Often, also, what I write is poor – too poor to share. But sometimes (more frequently as I’ve gained experience) what I write pleases even me.
I will assume too, that most readers of Red Room blogs will understand the satisfaction of having written, and written well.
That drive – the burning urge to write – is very different from the burning urge to get rich and famous as a writer. For me, my writing is freer, and I am more free to write, because I have a day job and I expect to need it forever. To, you know, support my writing addiction.
Then, whom do I write for? Will it all go into a grave, like my body eventually, never to be seen again?
First, I write for myself. For the joy of discovering what’s inside me somewhere which, magically, appears on paper sometimes, and surprises me.
Then, I share my best writings with friends and Blog readers, in the hope that they will be entertained. As a gift, basically.
Lastly, it occurs to me that I’ve learned a lot over the years. A lot about people, a lot about Medicine and a lot about writing. All that, too, will go into the grave with me, never to be seen again. Never to be imparted to others.
Unless - - - unless I write. For free.