Why Write When I Can Stab Myself with a Ticonderoga Pencil (Re-published)
Last night I put up an ad for my writing services on Craigslist and thought of this post from April, 2010. I thought of it because I've been working on old stuff for so long that I'm getting tired of most of it. I needed something to inspire me, remind me of why I write. Even if you've read this piece before, read it again. It's about passion. And even the work that is becoming tedious for me deserves my passion.
Thomas Berger wrote: "Why do writers write? Because it isn't there." But Stephen King said it best: "A writer writes." And me? I write because I'm a writer. I'm a writer because I write. Yes, I'm actually slapping my head and realizing I coulda had a V-8.
The reasons writers write are as diverse as the diversity of writers. But there is a common fuel, I believe, that all writers must have to drive this artistic engine. Writers may crave to convey their thoughts, to ink those electrical connections, to entertain, or optimistically--and naively--strive for fortunes. But the fuel running this machine is passion.
Recently, a writer wrote me that the reason he doesn't write much anymore is because he's not good enough. "Good enough." My heart sank. Because he had the passion. I used to see it. And read it. He was--is--a good writer.
So what happened?
Several years ago, I was writing nearly every day. I had so much passion for writing, my engine never ran out of gas. But then I began sending short stories to magazines for publication. And they were rejected. Repeatedly. One story titled The Day the Bears Flew I sent out 19 times over a 13-year period. I kept all the rejection slips. I don't know why I kept them. I may as well have stabbed myself in the heart with a Ticonderoga pencil. Because my passion for writing began to leak out. Slowly. Insidiously. And as my passion dwindled, so did my expectations, my confidence, the purpose for having a writing life.
Before I knew it, I was finding ways to avoid writing, then searching for activities to replace writing. For the next 15 years, I wrote in splurts. I became a dabbler. Passion was replaced by an ache of knowledge that I could write something significant and I was ignoring the opportunities. I ached to write something so entertaining that readers would tell others they had to read this story by Tom Eubanks. But the engine just wouldn't turn over anymore.
And then I made a discovery that changed everything for me. I discovered I could write for myself. Call it graphomasturbation. Call it flogging the keyboard. Call it what you want, but I began writing for myself and not for an "audience." Not self expression--selfish expression. And passion returned. Because I am the magnet for it. I am the home, the dwelling place. Without me, my passion is meaningless air.
Just as I have to sleep, I have to write. I couldn't tell you why. But I know that I love that I have to write. The rewards are so hard to see sometimes. The rewards can be indistinguishable from consequences when I have written something that is rejected, criticized or, worse, ignored. I wonder sometimes if I write so I won't be ignored. Or forgotten.
It's interesting to think about why I write, but, honestly, why I write doesn't matter to me anymore. What matters is that I write. If I don't write, that passion, that indescribable purpose to put thoughts into precious, treasured words has to go somewhere. And when that finite accumulation of desire dissipates into the heavenly ether, what then? What will my life be like without it? I admit it: I'm afraid of living without passion.
But I want to share my passion. Give it away. Freely. Like a food bank for creative expression.
I encourage the writer who concluded he wasn't good enough to steal a whole loaf of passion from the food bank and take eat. For writing. Eat it, like communion, take it in. It will feed him. And he will write.
Thomas Berger wrote: "Why do writers write? Because it isn't there." But Stephen King said it best: "A writer writes." And me? I write because I'm a writer. I'm a writer because I write. Yes, I'm actually slapping my head and realizing I coulda had a V-8.
The reasons writers write are as diverse as the diversity of writers. But there is a common fuel, I believe, that all writers must have to drive this artistic engine. Writers may crave to convey their thoughts, to ink those electrical connections, to entertain, or optimistically--and naively--strive for fortunes. But the fuel running this machine is passion.
Recently, a writer wrote me that the reason he doesn't write much anymore is because he's not good enough. "Good enough." My heart sank. Because he had the passion. I used to see it. And read it. He was--is--a good writer.
So what happened?
Several years ago, I was writing nearly every day. I had so much passion for writing, my engine never ran out of gas. But then I began sending short stories to magazines for publication. And they were rejected. Repeatedly. One story titled The Day the Bears Flew I sent out 19 times over a 13-year period. I kept all the rejection slips. I don't know why I kept them. I may as well have stabbed myself in the heart with a Ticonderoga pencil. Because my passion for writing began to leak out. Slowly. Insidiously. And as my passion dwindled, so did my expectations, my confidence, the purpose for having a writing life.
Before I knew it, I was finding ways to avoid writing, then searching for activities to replace writing. For the next 15 years, I wrote in splurts. I became a dabbler. Passion was replaced by an ache of knowledge that I could write something significant and I was ignoring the opportunities. I ached to write something so entertaining that readers would tell others they had to read this story by Tom Eubanks. But the engine just wouldn't turn over anymore.
And then I made a discovery that changed everything for me. I discovered I could write for myself. Call it graphomasturbation. Call it flogging the keyboard. Call it what you want, but I began writing for myself and not for an "audience." Not self expression--selfish expression. And passion returned. Because I am the magnet for it. I am the home, the dwelling place. Without me, my passion is meaningless air.
Just as I have to sleep, I have to write. I couldn't tell you why. But I know that I love that I have to write. The rewards are so hard to see sometimes. The rewards can be indistinguishable from consequences when I have written something that is rejected, criticized or, worse, ignored. I wonder sometimes if I write so I won't be ignored. Or forgotten.
It's interesting to think about why I write, but, honestly, why I write doesn't matter to me anymore. What matters is that I write. If I don't write, that passion, that indescribable purpose to put thoughts into precious, treasured words has to go somewhere. And when that finite accumulation of desire dissipates into the heavenly ether, what then? What will my life be like without it? I admit it: I'm afraid of living without passion.
But I want to share my passion. Give it away. Freely. Like a food bank for creative expression.
I encourage the writer who concluded he wasn't good enough to steal a whole loaf of passion from the food bank and take eat. For writing. Eat it, like communion, take it in. It will feed him. And he will write.
Posted by Tom Eubanks at 3/16/2011 8:38 AM 
Categories: On Writing
Tags: RePublished Inspiration Blast from the Past
Categories: On Writing
Tags: RePublished Inspiration Blast from the Past
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