Writing Is Scary, But So Is Obsolescence

Hannah Smith

To write is an intimidating craft not many dare to broach. It is an inherently vulnerable art which is borne from inscribing the thoughts and feelings of one’s heart and soul onto paltry paper. The process is a painful one, at times, especially if one’s mind is uncooperative like mine. Perfectionism has few places where it is truly useful, and the amorphous undertaking that is penning a complete story is not one of them—but the fear that underlies it is one completely relatable to writers across the globe, successful or not.

I don’t know about you, dear reader, but I don’t personally read to find the perfect book. Certainly, typos and inconsistencies are never ideal, but never has any such minor error caused me to put down a work before I finished reading it. I find joy in the littlest things, be they recognizable and endearing tropes or archetypes of characters that I adore every time. As a writer, I definitely indulge in the same ideas—there is deep comfort in the familiar, after all. It is that very same comfort of discovery (and rediscovery) that drives my passion as a writer.

It is the act of creation that gravitates me towards the art—it has since I was a child. I do not expect my works to be perfect, although that is often the goal while I write, and this attempted attainment is precisely what paralyzes many writers from achieving their best work. So often have I heard in casual conversation, upon usually polite inquiry regarding my passion for writing, the sheer majority of individuals’ unnervingly quick shut down of the very idea of doing something with such a unique fulfillment; this is due to that pervasive fear of being perceived in such an intimate manner. This is not helped by the fact that the arts in general have been locked behind a glass wall, usually only accessible by the upper echelons of society—one composed of leisure time and ample money.

This has resulted in the industrialisation of the arts, and thus it must come as no surprise that the first question I receive, when informing people of my major as a creative writer, is most often: “How do you plan to make money with that kind of a degree?” My infatuation with the art of storytelling doesn’t directly correlate to my desire to try to be the next best-selling author. If I could make enough from my works to live comfortably, that would be enough—but that I receive such skepticism for pursuing my passion is the problem I have with that particular sentiment. I write to escape this world and all its toils, to find hope and acceptance in the reflections of my soul that I willingly inscribe for all to see. That takes guts, frankly, and not everyone possesses that mettle—I will grant myself a rare compliment for that much.

Writing, in particular—once regarded a longstanding process which demanded days, months, even years of careful curation and laborious effort—has now become a machine which very well may chew one up and spit one back out if they have the curse of misfortune. Because of the obstacles and difficulties that burgeoning writers nowadays face, many turn away at the first sign of opposition. Authors usually must sustain jobs in related careers in order to make ends meet and to “justify” their back-burner dreams. This doesn’t even account for the time spent with family or socializing.

The detraction of time spent not working on one’s books robs authors of that precious process which should normally be accessible without measure: practice, that word ever-loathed by every would-be apprentice. No one is capable of creating a masterwork the first time they ever pick up the tools by which to make the attempt (be it a pen and paper or otherwise). Even adepts—people with a supposed innate talent (the presence of which, in my mind, is usually a result of one’s upbringing and environment rather than a genetic predisposition)—still must invest the time and effort in order to hone the craft required to produce something truly great.

Additionally, one’s definition of “great” can vastly vary—a “great” work to one might mean a simple finished draft, whereas others’ could be a self-indulgent work (hello, my dearest fanfiction) or a successfully published piece, all depending upon who one asks. It ultimately boils down to the intention by which an artist seeks to create something new. That there is such a prominent fear in people who feel they cannot merely enjoy the process of creating for its own sake—not to make a profit, nor to glean arbitrary fame—as well as the pride of accomplishment which accompanies it, proves that our society as it stands has rooted itself to inhabit the passions of man’s true artistic and creative nature…and that is most definitely the problem. I urge any ambitious, if hesitant, writers to be shrewd, yes, but to pursue this endeavor wholeheartedly. It offers far more reward than heartache, in the end, and will see your transformation into your most observant and attuned self. It will open your eyes to the world around you in countless new and myriad ways, and that—in and of itself—is a precious thing. Don’t let a “lack of skill” stop you.

Writing has never intended to be flawless, nor can it be. All it requires is repeated and continuous labor—which is a daunting thought I know very well after roughly sixteen years of trial and error. I face that fear every time I sit and stare between my keyboard and blank page, waiting for that blinking cursor to transcribe the complex thoughts that threaten to overflow my mind. My value as a writer, I must remind myself, is not dictated by all these stipulations of commerce, which I have pointed out like shining a flashlight into the eyes of predators couched in the dark. Making my voice heard, in the end, is what truly matters—as is whether I am content with the sound of it, the weight of words which I weave into tapestries vibrant with color, and

emotion and movement. I can live my life without being published, disappointment aside, but I cannot suppress that bone-deep urge to convey the tales that brim in the back of my mind.

I posit, then, that writing is the most vulnerable art form, and it must be dictated by one’s joy for that act rather than motivated by any sense of business. I can attest to this, having written for passion’s sake the last fifteen years anonymously, only comparatively recently having begun the process of having my craft analysed and improved two years ago. That I can share that joy with others and see them respond is the most valuable result to me. Perhaps that is partially from where some fear stems: in the most intimate perception, even if it promises connection on a level which is otherwise inaccessible to humans. I confess it is not always easy to present oneself like a lamb upon an altar for a sacrifice, yet it can be a heady rush like nothing else when you are met with the same enthusiasm you invested. (Workshops can be terrifying, but it helps to have friends who believe in your vision, trust your artistic process, and want to see your works at their best.)

…All of this talk was just for me to say, dear reader: practice. The only way you can practice writing is to write. Bundle all those worries up with gauze and use your favorite color ribbon to tuck each and every one onto a shelf in the back of your mind. Haul out those dusty crates packed full of all the ideas you buried so you might never feel the curious eyes of others inspect them. Computer or paper, it doesn’t matter; pens, pencils, or keys don’t make a difference. Be patient with yourself. Be consistent. Ten words a day, or a thousand? Do what you can—and, when you can’t, do it anyway. After all…quitters never have the chance to be published, but you just might