I write.
Such a simple statement but filled with so much pleasure and frustration, both sides of the coin in equal measure. But if it’s a zero sum gain, why bother?
For me, the reason is personal rather than financial. Like a majority of writers, I have no illusions of swimming in advances and royalties, which is fine with me. I write to fill a hole in my stomach. (Or is it in my brain?) Until I threw myself at a word processing program, something around eighty-proof filled that hole on an all-too-regular basis.
Beginning with a sole desire to squelch the need to take a drink, I tried writing short stories. They eventually led to novels that weren’t very good, but served their purpose…keeping me sober. Somewhere along the line, I got serious.
To learn the craft, I took some classes in screenwriting, something I recommend for anyone interested in crafting strong dialogue. For the sobriety of it, I took a short story, converted it to a screenplay, and then turned it into a graphic novel. Each of these venues taught me something different about developing and presenting a story. It is now a published novel, having benefitted greatly from the exercise.
Lastly, I joined a writer’s group. A good critique group is a gathering of like-minded folks who have the same desire…improve their skills. Equally important, members must be ready to tell the emperor he has no clothes. Honesty can be uncomfortable, because you hear things friends and family feel awkward providing. These aren’t mutual annihilation exercises, for honesty need not be cruel, requiring a healthy dose of the golden rule blended into each critique. My Beaverton Evening Writer’s Group has been a godsend.
So why write? Simple, I don’t think I can survive without it.