First things first; I know, I know, it’s been….actually, over a year since I posted. I’m terrible, awful, should have updated more…I’m just not hugely good at keeping up with things. But I promise, I will endeavour to write more on this blog, not least because now I have something to actually update people with! More on that a little later.
Recently, I’ve had a little crisis of confidence when it comes to my writing. This happens from time to time, when I begin to wonder if this is something I actually am good at, or if I’m just wasting my time bashing words onto a keyboard that no one but me will ever read.
I write for the love of it. Because it is one of those things I think (sometimes) I am pretty good at. I’ve always had good feedback on my work, whether it was on FictionPress, in seminars at University, or on Scrib. Well, less on Scribophile but for the most part, the critiques are still encouraging – just more geared towards improvement than anything else. And without it, I really don’t think my stories would have improved as much as they have in the last year or so I’ve been on there.
I’m not looking for fame and glory, though I’d be lying if I said it wouldn’t be a nice bonus. Eventually, it would be amazing just to have an audience, even if it was just one person, and to know I’d made someone smile through my writing – whether a short story or novel – or wrote something they thought of days later, in the same way some stories cross my own mind.
Isn’t that what all writers want?
Even without that though, there are other reasons I persist.
Truth be told, before the last year or so, things haven’t exactly been easy. There have been ups and downs, and through the downs, through some of the worst moments of my life, writing has been a persistent and constant companion. I have used it to work through my own thoughts, or to draw myself into a completely different world where the things I’ve been dealing with don’t exist. I’ve also used my own experiences to give my characters, hopefully, depth; in some, they have some of the less well-known symptoms of depression, or find themselves at some sort of crossroads, where they take the path I, personally, didn’t.
I’ve always used writing in this way, pouring my thoughts onto paper in the guise of fiction. And it helps. Whether or not what I’m writing relates to what I’m experiencing at the time, focusing on the words stops me focusing on whatever is bothering me. And if I go too long without working on anything, I start to feel drained, my fingers itching to get something written, no matter what it is.
Things have been a lot better more recently. For a variety of different reasons. But still, I write. I write because I can’t not write. I write because when I don’t, ideas and characters crowd my head begging to be let out. I write because, well, I’m a writer. I kind of have to.