I'm enjoying this thread very much. I've been intrigued by what other people have to say. More than that, though, it has made me think.
For me, there is no one reason why I write.
I don't write to be lauded and applauded -- at least I don't think I do -- although I do like being told that someone, somewhere, has enjoyed something that I have written. (Believe me, if I were writing Lois and Clark for the plaudits and the Kerths, I would have given up long since as, year on year, I watched other people walk away with those lovely, shiny lumps of perspex.
Last year, when I finally did win a Kerth, it seemed oddly anticlimactic.)
Having said that, I don't think I could write fiction just for myself. If I write something, it is in the hope that somebody might actually read it.
I've enjoyed one or two television series where no fandom has ever developed. In at least one case, I dreamed up a story; I even jotted notes down on paper. But I never finished anything. In fact, I barely even started.
My laziness is showing through.
But, seriously, I've sometimes wondered where the point would be in writing down readerless stories when I can simply lie in bed, close my eyes and let them play out in my head during that in-between time between closing my eyes and falling asleep. Not translating the images in my head into words on paper or on screen is a great way of saving both time and effort!
Yes, for me, writing can be an effort. In fact, for most of the time it is.
But sometimes it isn't.
Some Kind Of Angel just flowed and wouldn't stop, and writing it was an amazing experience. It was also almost frightening.
Where were my ideas coming from? They'd leap out and hijack me when I was least expecting it. Quite honestly, there were times when I felt that I wasn't writing the story at all but that it was writing itself, out of my control. I was just a conduit.
But that's not what usually happens. Usually when I have an idea it comes out in frustrating fits and starts. I have to go through endless pains and frustrations to wrestle my ideas onto the page.
Over the years, I've learned that, if the words won't come, I can't force them. I've tried. And tried. And tried. And now I know better now than to bust a gut trying. If a story wants to come, it will come, but only when it's good and ready.
When a story
does burst forth, though... I feel wonderful. I love the words, the feel of a sentence coming together, the parts of a whole that meld together to create something more, or subtly different, than I'd intended. I love the way that I can be amazed at something that I have written.
I don't mean that in any kind of egotistical way. I'm not talking about how good I think a story is. I'm talking about how the whole can be so different from what I'd originally planned. I'm talking about how an idea will take on a life of its own, taking me on a magical mystery tour before it reaches a conclusion that might or might not be the one I'd envisaged at the outset.
I love the buzz of creativity I get when I'm writing.
I said that writing SKOA was almost frightening, and so it was, but it was frightening in a good way. I've felt a little of that 'conduit' feeling with every story I've ever written. I've just never felt it quite so forcefully, so overpoweringly, before.
I said earlier that I didn't think I would write a story if there wasn't somebody out there to read it, and I think that's almost certainly true. For fiction, I need an audience.
However, I do write one thing that I don't expect -- or want -- anyone to read, just for the sheer pleasure it gives
me.
About two years ago, I started keeping a diary. I was going off on a Big Adventure, and I wanted to keep a record of it. For me, writing down my experience, or how I felt when I did something or saw something, proved to be as satisfying as taking photographs. In fact, sometimes more so. I found myself writing about the power of landscape, the wonderful knot in my stomach when I feel the glory of nature around me. How it felt to have one perfect moment of happiness, of tranquility.
After my adventure was over, I realised that I liked my diary for its own sake and that I didn't want to give it up. So I've kept writing. I've poured my heart into that diary. I've written about grief, about how it feels. I've written about my highs and lows, my hopes and dreams, and the mundane little details of everyday life.
In fact, I've bared my soul in that book. (Actually,
those books. My collection is growing.
)
I daresay I'll plunder some of the emotions , experiences and memories I've captured for use in stories at some future date.
But the diary, itself... It's a very personal thing.
Maybe in thirty, forty, or fifty years time, when I die, I'll leave my diary for someone in the dim and distant future to read, an artifact of social history. Until then, though, it's mine, and mine alone.
H'm. Maybe I
am writing my diary / journal for an audience, after all. I just never realised. If I do leave my diary to some archive somewhere, I won't be around to see anyone read it, or to get feedback, so I'm certainly not writing it for glory or plaudits or...
(You know, I've just realised something. This post isn't a story, but I've put down a thought I hadn't known I had before I started typing. There's the manifestation of that buzz of creativity I was talking about.)
I love the feel of a good pen in my hand... I love the flow of handwriting that spills across a page... I love the act of editing on paper... I love the physical craft of writing.
I love writing. I have done, ever since I was a child. And the good times, the wonderful highs that it can bring, make all the frustrations and all the dry periods bearable.
Why do I write?
Because I love it, warts and all. I was wrong at the beginning of this post, when I said there was no one reason why I write.
I write because I love to write. Simple as that.
Chris
