Why do I write (and ten reasons for writing)

Because I’m compelled to—I couldn’t imagine not writing. That’s the most common answer I get from fellow writers when I ask what drives them to write. It’s probably true, but compulsion isn’t always good or attractive : substitute ‘drinking’ for ‘writing’, and we may have a better understanding of how we’re seen by our families and friends. Along with that compulsion there is, I’d hope, a conviction that writing is a worthwhile pursuit, something worth doing even when there’s no money, no publishing deal, and indeed no compulsion. And everyone else is heading for the beach.

With a new year beginning, I’ve made a list to remind myself of the rewards of writing, some entirely selfish, some altruistic, hardly any of them commercially sound. Something to dig out when the compulsion fails. I thought I’d share it with you.

Ten reasons for writing:

Making something. We humans are creative animals and creating stuff—be it furniture, music or novels—may be the most distinctive and satisfying thing we do. We may have to wait until we contemplate the fruits of our labours, but there are few greater joys in seeing, perhaps, after several passes, something greater than we thought ourselves capable of. And the actual labour isn’t all slog and angst. There are times when the writing’s going well, when we’re on a roll, that there’s nothing we’d rather be doing though our families are more likely to see us when we walk away from the writing desk in frustration at the other times. Perhaps there’s the basis of a new-year resolution there for some of us.
Reaching others. It’s not what compels me to write, but for me, the greatest satisfaction comes from something I’ve written landing at the right time to make an impression on a reader, prompt a response. Perhaps it’s a laugh, or an emotional reaction to the beauty of the prose (I suspect I don’t pull that one off too often) or a decision to change their life.
We’ve all been impacted by books, and those books weren’t always the best-written or most profound. Just the right words at the right time. Did we write to the author to tell them? I’ve had a few cards and letters and personal approaches at events, full of surprises: from people prompted to have an autism assessment to parents naming their baby for a character, to a guy who pulled up stumps and moved countries. But what we authors see, if we see anything, is only the tip of the iceberg. We’re doing more than we know.
Changing the world.  Just after The Rosie Effect was published, Anne and I were invited to chat with Bill and Melinda Gates who were enjoying the series (we made a little video too it’s up on the web somewhere). I had more than one request to get in their ears about someone’s pet project—everyone telling me how privileged I was to have the attention of such an influential couple for an hour or so. But…they’ve read, at least, all the Rosie books: I’d call that a minimum of twenty hours of attention.
That’s the level of access that authors of novels and other long-form writing have. Unlike the writer of an eight-hundred word opinion piece or even extended article in a magazine, we have the time to win over our readers rather than just reinforce their prejudices.
Fiction is hugely influential. Ask someone about autism (a theme of my Rosie series) and their reference point is likely to be Rain Man. Or The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. Or The Big Bang Theory.
My partner Anne Buist writes in the mental-health space. The Best of Adam Sharp explores love and fidelity. Two Steps Onward deals with faith, mid-life reinvention, facing death. Big, important issues. A good novel deals with them subtly, showing rather than telling, keeping the author’s opinion off the page, giving our readers a chance to spend extended time with the ‘other’, perhaps take a journey with them, perhaps inhabit their head.
Even if our books sell in the thousands rather than the millions…for most of us, that’s a bigger audience than we’re likely to reach in any other way.
Providing companionship. For many of us, growing up, books were important companions, often taking the place of sympathetic human company. As an adult, I find that connection more in non-fiction: In my ‘best reading’ in The Age this year, I cited books by autism advocate Pete Wharmby, writing teacher Lee Kofman and a guy I’m unlikely to have a chance to meet in person, one Bob Dylan, as giving me the chance to hang out with someone and listen to them shoot the breeze on a topic that interests me, and that they know a lot about. But it applies to fiction too. When I read Haruki Murakami’s novels (I’m thinking especially of Killing Commendatore) I’m enjoying his company and that of his characters as much as the prose and the story per se. He’s taking me on a journey, I’m happy to trust him. I give my own readers a chance to hang out with me, without having to buy me drinks.
Self-improvement. Some of us write deliberately for therapy, and some of us get unexpected insights or wake-up calls from the process. All of us learn to do a bunch of things better, from observation to understanding human dynamics to communication—life skills. And even if we know how to do it already—and many don’t—we learn to how to manage a big, daunting project and to hold the mindsets (EQ anyone?) needed to persevere.
Contributing to the art pool. We read, we listen to music, we watch television. Writing gives us our chance to put something back in, to fulfill our part of the artistic ‘social contract’.
Supporting the book economy. If our book is published, it becomes the centre of an enterprise involving editors, printers, publicists, booksellers, readers and more. We’re helping to keep all those guys in ‘regular jobs’ in work. And if it’s published internationally—we’re doing our bit for the balance of trade.
Hanging with cool people—and being cool yourself. When I worked in IT, only other ITers were interested in what I did. (Anne, as a psychiatrist, has the opposite problem: people very interested in getting free advice). But now I’m a writer: tell me about your latest book and I’ve always wanted to write.  At festivals, I  get to meet the authors of the books I’ve loved (or not) and ask them the questions I get asked: When’s the movie coming out?  And yes, I do get a kick when I hear that someone I admire has read one of my books. Like when one of the Beatles ‘liked’ one of my tweets[1]
Making a buck. We’ve been told so many times that writing doesn’t pay. I don’t know many people who went into writing expecting to get rich, or even to make a living at it, and that’s probably a wise course, but some do. I’ve made a living as a novelist for a few years, as have a few people I know. And a larger number have been able to put together a financially viable ‘writing life’, perhaps combining teaching or commercial writing with their more artistic projects. That advance or royalty or lending-rights payment isn’t nothing—and you just may get lucky (or justly rewarded).
Modelling a way of working and living. The reasons above may not be the ones that our kids or their teachers, relatives and counsellors are focusing on when they talk about work and careers. But here we are, doing a ‘show don’t tell’ to demonstrate that there are other ways.

I’ve surely missed something—perhaps the most important reason that you write. Maybe tell me about it in the comments (if you find this post somewhere that allows comments). But remind yourself about it anyway.

[1] Yeah, yeah, it was Pete Best.