J.T. Ellison's Blog, page 19

Friday Reads

It’s Friday, friends, and you know what that means… let’s talk books!

I’ve been in Colorado for the past week, and have been watching a bunch of movies instead of reading (Jason Bourne, Pride and Prejudice, The Ghost Writer, Out-Laws) but on the plane ride home I dipped into Danielle Trussoni’s The Puzzle Master and I am entranced. What a great premise, and the story is mind-boggling.

How about you? What are you reading this weekend?

Exclusive: A Look at My Current Work in Progress

I’m traveling this week, researching the new book I’m working on, a standalone currently called A VERY BAD THING. It’s about a hugely famous person who passes away unexpectedly, and the chaos that ensues when a young reporter doing an investigative piece gets ahold of her hard drive and discovers her past might not be exactly what it seems. It’s set in New York, Nashville, and Denver.

One of the issues I’ve been having is that my books always have a powerful setting, which is spread across several areas that I know, but I’m not as familiar with post-pandemic. You see, as I’ve gotten back on the road these past few weeks, I realize we truly are living in a completely new world. It’s not just that the streets are less crowded, which they are. The way people interact is different. Formerly exclusive restaurants have room for last-minute reservations, but several of our long-time favorites are gone. Kindness has been abundant, especially in the service industry, where the gratitude of being “back” has everyone going above and beyond. Of course, never underestimate how making eye contact and giving a genuine smile opens doors. But I’ve been in New York twice in three weeks, and both times it felt…different.

That sense of cultural expansiveness needs to find its way into our fiction.

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Friday Reads

It’s Friday, friends, and you know what that means… let’s talk books!

I am lost in FOURTH WING by Rebecca Yarros. Lost. I can’t function, I can’t write. All I want to do is read. And I keep forcing myself to put down the book because I don’t want it to be over, but I can’t help myself. I am gorging on this story, and what a glorious feeling that is.

How about you? What are you reading this weekend?

Mid-Year Goals: How to Reassess, Realign, and Recommit

If you’ve followed me for a while, you know I love doing annual reviews. It’s an important part of my year, a tradition that I feel is as vital to my writing process as my daily 1000 words.

Since we’re at the mid-point of the year, and I have some seismic shifts happening in my life, I thought it would be wise to take a look at the 2022 review and do a mid-year assessment to see if I’ve hit my goals for the first two quarters, and see if I need to make any changes for the rest of the year.

For the practical—words written, books read—I am, as always, behind. I tend to write heavily in the summer, which has just started, and read more then, too. Tour ate up almost two months of writing time, and I’ve gotten stuck in Reader’s Death Valley a few times. And, of course, I lost three weeks when Jameson passed. Just nonfunctional, and I’m still crawling out of that horror. So I’m currently sitting at 50k/200k and 32/80 books reads.

I’ve published three novels so far this year (It’s One of Us, The Wolves Come at Night, The Keeper of Flames) and two short stories (These Cold Strangers, Louche 49). I have another novel coming out on Halloween (The Prophecy of Wind), and three more short stories before the end of the year (Guardians of Fury, Guardians of Power, X House) so I can’t say I am totally slacking off. Though I swear, it feels that way sometimes. I am my own worst taskmaster, and though I know, know in my very soul, that my slow productivity method of writing 1000 words a day gets me to the finish line again and again, when I’m in the throes of drafting, as I am now, every moment I’m not writing—and there are a lot of them—feels like I am jaking it.

Photo by Sixteen Miles Out on Unsplash

Am I the only one who feels like this? Who gets down on themselves for not accomplishing anything, even when you clearly are? It’s really pointless; at the end of the month, I can see appreciable progress made on projects, so I know to ignore this voice. But it’s still hard sometimes not to self-flagellate because I read a book and redid a website and snuggled the cat and wrote an essay (ahem) instead of writing new words on the novel I’m drafting.

No. I do not write 1000 words a day like an automaton. That’s my goal, and when I look at my spreadsheet at the end of the year, I get a better sense of how much I do write every day, but it’s an average. My daily average word count right now is a measly 250. But that’s with a big fat zero in February and March, and three weeks of bereavement. Take those out and I’m up to 490 daily average, which is reputable. Five hundred words a day averages out to 182,500 annualized, which I’d be damn proud to achieve in a good year. By the end of August, I’ll be in the 700s, and then the fall, which is full of drafting, will take me to my usual average, which sits annually in the 800s. I will make the 200k goal.

I could be writing more. But I also need a life. I need to fill the well, and I need to keep up the level of my craft. I’ve always written fast, and that’s great, but the quality matters, too, and if that means going a little slower, focusing on the story a little deeper as I draft instead of during revision, so be it. And my heart hurts, so there are plenty of moments when the words simply aren’t there.

I’d planned out my year with a ridiculous travel schedule in the first quarter, then things gradually slowed through the summer and into the fall. That’s been shot a bit, as we have out-of-state family matters that need my attention and business matters that have also necessitated a few trips. And then, hell, I figured I might as well start researching the next book, too, so the quiet summer and fall has turned into a bit of a bear schedule-wise.

Happily, I work almost better on the road than I do at home, mostly because there aren’t those pesky distractions (right now, someone in my neighborhood is chopping down a tree, and the thunk thunk thunk of their axe is making me both admire their physical wellbeing and want to grab said axe and…stow it in my garage.) Laundry, dinner, cleaning, and gardening are all necessary, and all take me away from my work, whereas on the road, it’s simply experiences and the words they engender.

But all of this pales when I look at my theme for 2023: Ritual.

…Ritual is more than daily habits and parties and social media sabbaticals. It’s about travel, togetherness, unplugging completely, and respecting breaks. It is about reclaiming my time, reclaiming my space, reclaiming my creativity, and doing what’s right for me and my little family. It’s about saying “No, thank you” often and with great joy and zero guilt. It is about the transformation that comes from expectation, the abundance that comes from daily work, and the confidence that comes with being older and wiser, knowing that rituals are vital to a happy, healthy life.

Here’s the deal. Goals are excellent and necessary. But we’re coming out of the most difficult years any of us have ever known. The world was broken by the pandemic. It’s like when your computer shuts off during a sudden storm; it takes a while to reboot, to get all the windows back open, to find your place in the work. Our mental health is suffering. Our tempers are frayed. Strangers are perfectly content to vent their frustrations on you, both online and in person. Even people you know have changed.

So perhaps now is the time to lean deeper into the ideas above. Travel. Togetherness. Unplugging. Respecting breaks. Maybe those things are a little more important than daily word averages and goal analysis. Maybe the only way we heal from sorrows big and small is by turning off our computers and meeting face-to-face with friends, with family. Maybe there’s a bigger long-term gain in shutting down after 300 words and taking the dog for a walk, or finding a quiet spot to read. To stop and smell the roses—this cliche has never been more important. It might just save the human race.

Maybe what you’ve done today is enough for now. It will always be there for you tomorrow.

The Creative Edge by J.T. Ellison is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Friday Reads

It’s Friday, friends, and you know what that means… let’s talk books!

I’ve been plowing through some amazing thrillers recently, including THE DROWNING WOMAN by Robyn Harding, and Kate White’s BETWEEN TWO STRANGERS. And non-fiction from the divine Helen Ellis, too - KISS ME IN THE CORAL LOUNGE is a hoot and a half.

How about you? What are you reading this weekend?

My Alter-Ego Has A New Book Out

Many of you know I write fantasy under the pseudonym Joss Walker. For those of you who don’t, here’s how this happened.

Way back in March 2016, I saw a story on Twitter: The CIA is hiring a $100,000 Librarian.  It didn’t take me reading past the headline to start cracking jokes in my head: specifically, “Jane Bond. CIA librarian.” She came alive for me in ways few characters have done since I cooked up Taylor Jackson. I saw this young woman immediately, cracking wise and saving the world.

The Creative Edge by J.T. Ellison is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

I sent the story to my husband and assistant.

“Hey. I have an idea. A young librarian named Jane Bond applies for a job at the CIA as a reference librarian and gets more than she bargained for. Has anyone already done this?????”

The answer, it turned out, was no. I ran the idea up the flagpole to my agent. “What if I wrote a new series with this character, something lighter, not as dark, funny, fun.” My agent pointed out we probably couldn’t use the Bond branding, but the idea was sound.

Problem was, I already had so many commitments that there was no way I could manage to add another. So the idea sat. 

But I was edgy about it. We authors are a zeitgeisty bunch. I knew if I didn’t write the story, someone else would. My fabulous assistant at the time, The Amazing Amy, did yeoman’s work helping me figure out the storyline, the character, pulling together a proposal and outline. But my agent wasn’t in love. I was, of course, devastated. I knew in my soul there was something about Jayne (note the spelling change, she was already morphing). I wanted to explore her character so badly.

Pre-pandemic, we used to have author get-togethers for brunch and writing days. I was hosting the day Alisha Klapheke came by. While most of us goofed off in the kitchen eating and gossiping, she greeted everyone, then set up shop in the corner of the couch, put on her headphones, and banged out 2,000 words before joining us for the fun.

That caught my attention. 

And I started to think maybe, just maybe, I needed a co-writer. And maybe, just maybe, I was setting Jayne in the wrong world. Maybe, just maybe, Jayne needed to have…magic.

I had long wanted to write in the fantasy genre. Urban fantasy, epic fantasy, dragons, witches, whatever—something that I could build the world, the rules, the moral structure, the magic system. But, as it true writing in any genre, you need to know the rules, the tropes, the authors. Alisha had all of that knowledge and more—a brilliant voice and sharpshooter writing skills.

I approached, she agreed, and a partnership was formed. It was now 2018, two years since that first spark of an idea lit up my imagination. 

This, friends, was magic, made real.

You see where this is heading. Work, work, work, meshing Jayne into the fabric of our solo books. Outlines and proposals, synopses and drafts. Meetings over lunch, and eventually, Zoom. Incredible changes in both our lives and careers. But during it all, writing, creating, breathing life into the idea of Jayne until she was fully realized and truly leaped off the page. I decided on the pen name Joss Walker, and off to the races we went.

Jayne Thorne, CIA Librarian, was reborn in a magical world where the CIA has a magical branch called the Torrent Control Office (TCO) whose primary division is called The Library. Magic has been throttled, stuck in the Torrent for a very long time, and a terror organization is using dark magic, including necromancy, to try and raise formerly strong magicians to access their powers and control the world. When Jayne, a librarian at Vanderbilt University in Nashville, accidentally accesses a grimoire in the Vandy vault, the resounding thunderclap to the magical world draws the attention of both friend and foe. The CIA gets to her first, and her journey begins. The book was a little bit thriller, a whole lot of fantasy, and all kinds of magic, with tons of books, cool libraries, international settings, and a hot Irishman thrown in for funsies.

This initial story has grown into its own universe. The Keeper of Flames is the 3rd book (but can be read as a standalone) and there’s a mini-series attached to tell the stories of a secret society of magicians that parallels the main series. I’m now working with a new co-writer, and together the worlds we create continue to shift. Magic is no longer throttled, and Jayne Thorne has come into her powers.

I know you might not be the audience for magic. But you love my J.T. novels, and I daresay, were you to give the Joss books a try, you might be surprised. They have all the aspects of my thrillers, just in a slightly new realm. And boy, am I having fun writing them!!!

If you’re interested in learning more, you can check out the whole Jayne universe at JossWalker.com. Thanks so much for indulging my passion for worlds not quite our own. Sometimes, a little escape is all we need.

I'D LOVE TO MEET JAYNE!

The Creative Edge by J.T. Ellison is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Friday Reads

I’m always interested in what the people in my community are reading, and I’d love to start a Friday thread for it here on my Substack.

I just finished Elin Hilderbrand’s THE BLUE BISTRO, and started Ruth Ware’s ZERO DAYS!

What are you reading this weekend?

The Two Words Every Writer Needs

I want to talk to you today about the creative journey.

Honestly, if there’s only one concept you take away from this essay, one little thing that makes a difference to your writing, your life, your world,  it’s this:

Practice RECKLESS ABANDON at all times.

We become writers because we love books. We live for them. They’re our drug of choice. We will do anything for a good story, for transportation to a different time, for a sexy hero to sweep us off our feet, to find true love, to stop a madman, to revel in the evil humanity of a villain.

We read them, we write them, we obsess about them.

Story is in our blood.

It used to be that story was enough. Writers would pen a story, publishers would publish it. It’s all changed. We live in dangerous times. Ebooks and digital presses and Facebook and Twitter. We can’t just write a story and send it out to the world; we must promote it, endure public reviews, and scathing criticism from people who don’t know what their biting words do to us. Sometimes we must pull our books because our readers cry out; sometimes, there is a perceived injustice and an angry mob insists [you] your work isn’t appropriate.

No, we can no longer stay cocooned in story.

How do we navigate this world? How do we juggle our careers and our lives? How do we roll with the challenge of hate and derision and its Janus twin, love and adoration? How do we make decisions, good decisions, when there’s a Greek chorus singing on our shoulders all day, second guessing everything we do?

RECKLESS ABANDON.

Photo by Peter Conlan on Unsplash

When you sit down to write, open your work in progress, and face that blank page . . . what are you thinking?

Are you calm and focused, ready to tackle the day’s work?

Are you nervous and edgy, uncertain and afraid?

Or are you cocky and confident, anxious to get the words down because they’re flying out of your head and through your fingers onto the page so fast that you’re misspelling everything in your haste?

I am all three of these writers. We all are.

Every day is different. Every time you sit down to the page, you’re a different person than the last time. You’ve changed, be it from something your husband or wife said to you at dinner the night before, or something your kid shared before you took him or her to school, or that dream you had, you know the one I mean, where Benedict Cumberbatch calls and wants to option your book, and work with Spielberg on it.

Because you change from moment to moment, you must recognize that each day you come to the page will be different. Some days, the words flow and the story clicks, and all is right in the world. And some days, everything sucks. It’s trash. It’s the worst tripe in the history of mankind, and no one will want to read it.

And that’s okay.

Reckless abandon are the two words every writer needs to remember, whether the day is going well or badly. They should be tattooed on the inside of your arm, a place you can hide with a sleeve if you need to. Someplace just for you, so when things get rough, or you forget why you’re on this road, or some vagary of modern publishing conspires against you, you can look at them and remind yourself.

You want permission to follow your heart? Need to trash that chapter you wrote yesterday? Murder your darlings? Fire your agent?

Permission granted.

There. It’s just that easy.

Reckless abandon permits you to do whatever you need to make your story work. If that’s taking the afternoon off to read something juicy and fun, or having lunch with your friends, or going shopping, do it. If that’s editing the previous day’s work, do it. If that’s acknowledging you need to make a huge career move so you can write what you love, do it.

Do what you need to make your world work. Accept the change, And then you can return to the page the next day, refreshed and ready.

Too many of us torture ourselves into a finished manuscript. That’s crazy. We’re writers. We have the best job in the world. And that has nothing to do with being able to work in your pajamas.

OK, maybe it has a little to do with that.

In all seriousness, I see too many writers holding their hands in the flames, cringing and crying and hurting themselves to get their work done. There are ways to have a career in this industry that don't include self-flagellation.

When I start a manuscript, it’s hell. Though I’ve done it thirty times now, it’s the same each time. I forget how to write a book. The first ten thousand words are like digging fossils from rocks. They’re clunky and shallow and purple, and the metaphors stink. They sound like a third grader with her mommy’s thesaurus, stringing together consonants into nonsense.

But I grit my teeth and know that if I come to the page every day, day in and day out, by some miracle, I will have a finished draft in X number of days. And once there’s a draft, and words to edit, I can do anything.

YOU CAN EDIT YOUR WORK INTO BRILLIANCE.
YOU CAN’T EDIT A BLANK PAGE.

Let me repeat that. You can’t edit what doesn’t exist. I can’t tell you how many writers fall into the trap of trying to make that first draft perfect. (I fall into this trap myself, all the time. Then I remind myself how much I love revising and push on.)

Take the pressure off yourself. Nothing will be perfect your first time through. It might be close, but I only know of two or three writers who actually turn in their work when they type The End. The vast majority edit.

Something else I’ve been noticing lately that upsets me is the self-deprecation of our writerly selves. We need to be humble, right? We need to be likable. It’s an artist thing, partially, but it’s also a lot easier to have 1000 or 10,000 or 50,000 friends now than it ever was before.

And pride’s a sin . . . 

It’s a conundrum. We want to be writers, capital W. We want to share with people that we’re writers. We want to sell a gazillion copies of our books and be lauded for our efforts. But we can’t sell ourselves, or brag about our good reviews, or tell people when we’re having a crappy writing day, without worrying about how it makes us look.

All that must go away. It’s about you, and the words. You and your story. That’s it.

We are our own worst enemies when it comes to taking ourselves seriously. We’re so good at finding ways to talk ourselves OUT of success.

THE TRUTH OF THE MATTER IS THIS: NO ONE WILL TAKE YOU SERIOUSLY IF YOU DON’T TAKE YOURSELF SERIOUSLY.

Take yourself seriously, and your passion for your work will bleed through.

Reckless Abandon. It’s another term for boundless passion, isn’t it?

We talk around it, like our passion for writing is a bad thing. Or makes us a little unbalanced. But without passion, what else do we have? Passion — equals drive — equals success.

And some people don’t have it. I think the difference between the one-offs and the glory seekers and real writers is our unique brand of passion. For literature. For books and bookstores and readers. For creativity. For living on the soul-sucking edge of the pit of despair and dancing with fairies on the tips of the Himalayas — which is basically how we spend all of our days, teetering between the two. For the words, man. The words.

I am a fan of Hemingway, and one thing you can NEVER accuse that man of is lacking passion. He lived for his words. They made his life bearable. Even through the alcohol and the women and wars and the eventual pain that chased him into the grave, the words were what made him complete, and tore him apart.

And he had a habit, a schedule. Done by twelve, drunk by three.

It might not be healthy, but it’s a schedule. And that’s important to a writing career.

Find a schedule, and stick to it, no matter what.

Schedules become habits. Habits create consistent output. And consistent output allows you to have a successful career. No one can buy your brilliant novel if you don’t sit down and write the thing.

But passion and output aren’t enough. Another habit you must cultivate is confidence. Believing in your work, and believing in yourself. Not allowing the brown noise that oozes through the Internet to leak into your delicate ears. Tune it out. Tune out the naysayers, and the shouters, and the chest-beaters. Don’t let them influence you. Write for you, not for the market. Write what you’re passionate about. Do it well, and your work will find a home. Do it well, again and again, and you’ll have a career.

The next time you catch that urge to demean your writing, or your writing life, or distract yourself because you’re scared, STOP.

Remember the passion that drove you to write in the first place. Embrace it. Give thanks for it. Take it out for dinner. Maybe even buy it a new pair of shoes. Never, ever, EVER, put yourself and your writing down. And persevere. This isn’t an easy path. Only the strong survive.Close your eyes. Go on, close them. Dream for a moment. Give yourself permission to embrace reckless abandon with your writing, and with your life.

Think of these things, and realize the universe wants to give you what you want.

It’s out there for the taking. The glorious person you just envisioned? The one who’s content and happy, who writes every day and works hard, who learns how to prioritize and juggle and stay sane? Who has a successful career writing books you love?

That’s you.

Right now. You’re already that person, that writer.

Revel in this truth. And let the rest go.

Reckless Abandon. The two words every writer need. And it’s easy to achieve. Live for your story. Respect your writing time. Sit down every day and pound out those words. Let everything else go.

Let the universe give you what you want!!!

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I Am Not Cool

I attended a conference recently in New York. There were two things I took away.

One—being a writer is the most kick-ass job because besides telling lies for a living, we get to meet cool people on the road: other writers who embody brilliant intellectual awesomeness, readers who appreciate you, and people who feed you. (So true…)

Two—I am not cool.

I never have been. I’ve never fit in with the “in” crowd or had people kneeling at my feet. I wasn’t a cheerleader, but I wasn’t a geek. I was just this tall kid who got decent grades and floated through my younger life, wishing I had the guts to do…something. Anything.

My family moved to Washington, D.C., from the backwoods of Colorado halfway through my fifteenth year, and I suffered the most massive case of culture shock imaginable. My parents wanted me to go to private school, but I didn’t want to. The idea of not fitting in, you see. I was scared of this breed of child, the privileged, the forgone conclusion, their Ivy League Junior League summer in Nantucket paths preordained. There was no way I could keep up. A few days after moving, I met a neighborhood girl who seemed to have coolness in spades. She smoked on the corner; she laughed when her mother gave her a curfew. She went to the local public school; she claimed the parties were epic. I immediately set about trying to copy her.

Clothes were first, then hair, then makeup, then boys.

Photo by Rafał Karoń on Unsplash

In Colorado, it was still cool to wear button-up Levi’s. In McLean, Virginia, circa 1985, GUESS jeans were all the rage. I wore Nikes, hard-won, bought with my allowance, broken-in, the ultimate in cool, but in my new home, Reebok high-tops were de rigueur. Everyone in Virginia had these sleek, preppy, effortless bobs, but I permed my hair. The cool guys drove Camaros, and you were supposed to let them feel you up if they gave you a ride to school. Taking the bus was forbidden. Moosehead was the only acceptable beer, Benson & Hedges Deluxe Ultra Light Menthol 100s were the cigarette of choice. Jeans were to be winnowed, folded and tucked inside large, slouchy socks.

It was midway through my junior year when I began yearning for something. I didn’t know what, just that I wasn’t at all happy with the way things were going. I had some friends who were considered “cool,” and others who were laughed at. I was pressured to pick one group or the other. I’ve never been a fan of that whole setup… “It’s fine to be friends with Mary, because she dates Greg and he drives a BMW, but not Susan because her parents still drive her to school.” John Hughes knew a little something about peer pressure, didn’t he?

Drifting, I eventually joined the track team, which wasn’t considered cool at all—but found a talent for throwing the discus, of all things, and started hanging with a new crowd. We listened to Run DMC on the bus to meets, and had our own strange lingo. That was a good change, but not enough. I missed the true Goth movement by a couple of years; my school only had modified Punks. (They would be called Hipsters now. The Cult, Cure, Depeche Mode, all that. Though I thought Morrissey was a whiny idiot and pledged allegiance to Pink Floyd instead.) I hung out with them for a bit. Still, they were too much like me, scratching the surface of rebellion, too concerned about grades, extracurriculars, and college applications to really feel what the movement was all about.

Not finding what I was seeking in my own school, I branched out to the other local high school, McLean, where there were real Punks. They dyed their hair. They wore gravity-defying mohawks and ripped jeans. They skipped class and laughed at me when I freaked out about missing seventh period. They read my poetry and shared theirs in return. They treated me as an equal. As if cocker Spaniels were allowed to be equal to Dobermans.

They were the ultimate in cool to me.

I went from the “Goody Two-shoes” Sandra Dee to the “I got chills” Sandy in the space of a week. I replaced my pearl earrings with safety pins and begged my mom to let me streak a chunk of my hair pink (she flatly refused). I switched to Camel Lights. I tossed out the GUESS jeans that I hated and found some tight black ones that I paired with kick-ass brown suede ankle boots instead of the Reeboks. I bailed on Yearbook. Skipped track practice. Drank whiskey in the McDonald’s parking lot. Regularly made out with a guy named Jim, who had a blue mohawk and a string of safety pins running from his nose ring to his pierced ear. He would have been so freaking perfect if he’d just been five inches taller.

I think I even stashed my Official Preppy Handbook in the garage.

But there was only so much rebellion my parents would accept. They’d always been strict, but my dad took one look at my new boyfriend’s blue hair and chains and forbade me ever to see him again. And after about a week of being grounded until I got some new friends, I caved.

I caved.

My brush with rebellion quashed, I got back in line and kept my head down.

Back came the sleek bob, albeit slightly asymmetrical, just a little hint of daring. Back went on the dreaded GUESS jeans. Back I went to track and classes. I took a holiday job at Britches Great Outdoors to get the employee discount because that was the cool thing to do. I was a lifeguard in the summers at the local country club. I dutifully applied to all the right schools. I studied hard, trained in discus until I lettered, joined the golf team. Got a couple of sports scholarships for my efforts.

I always wonder what would have happened if I’d stuck to my guns back then. If I’d dyed that hank of hair pink. If I’d followed my gut instead of the path people expected of me. Would I have been cast out of our polite society? Ended up starving in a Parisian garret or trying out for plays on Broadway? Would I have turned that early poetry into something groovy and spoken word, wearing all black, smoking Gitanes, and arguing Sartre? Backpacked across Europe? Followed the seeker life? Would I have found my path earlier rather than later?

I don’t envy our current generation their struggles with identity. Theirs feel much bigger, more rabid, more permanent, and totally on display for the world to watch. Or maybe the stakes, the culture, the online networks allow them to find their people easier, I don’t know. Mine was bad enough; the pressure of this world is untenable. Even as an established adult, an established writer, there are still fences that shall not be jumped. Imagine what being 15 is like now.

I still struggle with the two sides of my personality. The good responsible girl versus the hedonistic artist rebel. The rebel has won out several times over the years—some piercings, well before it was cool, and a few tattoos. My husband drew the line at my nose—I’ve always wanted to pierce my nose. I blame Jim. But the good girl—she was a debutante (I know, I know)—got her degree, got another degree, married an awesome guy, worked in a proper job, and spent too many years trying to ignore the screams that came from the back of her skull daily.

I wanted to be a writer, not realizing I already was. I made the mistake too many creatives make: I kept waiting for permission. To be told that was the path I should take. For my professors to give me gold stars. For my parents to say it was okay. For my friends to say, hey, if you love this so much, why don’t you do it instead?

My husband was the one—my catalyst. Of course, he was. He watched all this experimentation and knew what was going on. When the rebel kept trying to force her way out, he encouraged her. With his blessing, in 2003 I chucked my nice safe life and started a novel. God bless him, he worked twice as hard so I could stay home and write.

From the moment I wrote that first word, I never looked back. All the strain, all the heartache, all the frustration… It wasn’t the rebel fighting for her place in the world like I always assumed—it was the Muse, desperately trying to get out.

So as hubby and I were hanging out with some utterly cool steampunk writer chicks, I felt those old urges—a need for hair dye (Manic Panic Hot Hot Pink is on order) a nose ring, clunky boots, ripped tights, a perfect sense of irony and a touch of ennui. I’m probably too old to indulge in this latent fantasy.

But one thing is certain. I may not be cool, but now I am a writer.

And that’s cool to me.

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Why Do You Write?

I find the following question to be one of worth to all writers, at every stage of the game, from aspiring debut to New York Times bestseller:

Why do you write? 

I admit to a deep interest in the question. I have a number of author friends whose opinions matter to me a great deal, and I’m curious to see if any of them will stop by and share their answer.

I ask also because I recently had the pleasure of attending a writing retreat with a number of brilliant, talented writers, and we touched on this, albeit briefly. I came out of the discussion with this—I think it’s one of the hardest questions a writer can ask themselves and truthfully answer.

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

Because there are a million answers to the question of why create art, especially when there’s quite a precedent that shows creating our unique “art” does not guarantee fame, fortune, or self-actualization, as so many of us are hoping. On the contrary, it often leads to rack and ruin, unhappiness and divorce, and even, at its worst, death.

So why do we keep at it? What is it that drives us to create, to tell stories, to make art for others to celebrate and abhor?

Here’s a top-of-mind list of why we write (and by write, I mean create, in any form):

To be read

To make a living

To win awards

To become famous

To get a job

To tell stories that need to be told

To entertain

To affect change

To give people something to think about

To alter the course of humanity

To show someone you can

To get rich

To win over a love interest

To get revenge

To chase away demons

To satisfy some indefinable inner urge to write

To heal thyself

There are many more reasons. What do you think, fellow scribblers? Are you willing to share why you do it? I’ll go first. 

I write to entertain, to affect change, to make a living, to chase away demons, to heal my soul, and because I can’t imagine doing anything else.

What about you?

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