Why I Write
The backseat writer’s guide to going On The lam.
From a very early age, perhaps the age of five or six, I knew that when I grew up I should be a writer.
-George Orwell
Why do I write? Hell, why do you write? It seems to be a question that comes up a lot when writers talk to readers. It doesn’t seem to come up so much amongst writers. I’m not a fan of putting up those kinds of barriers, between one group or another, but I’m doing it here for a reason. I’ll come back to it.
There’s a story I’ve told a few times, sometimes people believe me, sometimes they don’t. When I was somewhere around five years old, the teacher of my class asked us all what we wanted to be when we grew up. Let’s ignore how stupid and offensive a question that is to ask a room full of five-year-old children. I didn’t hesitate in my answer. I said I wanted to be a “book maker.” And it was a long time before I learned why the teacher laughed.
It was longer still before I ever managed to deliver on that dream. I can’t help but admire something in that young idiot. He didn’t know it at the time, but he was dyslexic. He didn’t understand that nobody else in the class was having that problem with the words coming in and out of focus, and he didn’t understand that making books wouldn’t mean that he could randomly switch between words and pictures mid-sentence. He simply didn’t understand that reading and writing was going to be a daily battle. But he set his stall out.
Why the long ramble? Well, just to say this; If I knew why I wrote, I probably wouldn’t be doing it. It’s certainly never been the easy choice for me. But fuck it, who wants easy?
The reason I drew the distinction between writers and readers at the start is because of this very question. I often get asked, by friends, family and well-meaning readers, why I write. And -as with most questions about writing- I never have a particularly well thought out answer. I think about my craft and my characters, but most of the rest of it is a case of playing it by ear. I just do what feels right, then worry about claiming to be a genius later on.
I spent last weekend in the company of some mighty fine writers, and the question of why we write never came up. Although, oddly, it was a weekend that must have had us all thinking about it. We were staying in Seattle thanks to the hospitality of our publisher Thomas & Mercer. There were boat tours, walking tours, free booze, lot’s of great food, and -most importantly- a lot of time spent talking about books, publishing, mexicutioners and fart jokes. You know- all the high brow stuff.
I’m sure that as each of took in our surroundings, our company, and the passion on display from our publisher, we each had a moment to think is this why we write? To have weekends like this? It would be a mighty fine reason. But probably a foolish one -those times are few and far between.
Maybe we write for choice? The choice of when to get up, when to go to bed, who to let shout at us, and where our brains are going to be all day. Maybe. That would also be a fine reason.
I’m three books into my career. I’m still figuring out what kind of writer I want to be. At On The Lam I got to talk to many different kinds of writer. Some have forged successful careers mixing their own work with work-for-hire, some like to sit and slowly work through their own books, one at a time, and supplement their income elsewhere. Some have long-term deals, some only worry about one contract at a time. Each of them took time to talk to me about their careers, their paths, and to help me along in deciding on mine.
All told, it was a pretty inspiring weekend. Maybe that’s why we write, to be inspired. As I sat on the plane back -all nine hours of it- I could feel the fire that had been lit under my ass. Playing it by ear has been fine. It’s gotten me to this point. But I spent a few days surrounded by people who know what they’re doing, why they’re doing it, and what they’ll be doing next. And if they didn’t know those things, they knew how to fake it. It’s time for me to go all in.
So, to the readers who’ve stuck with me so far, thank you, and you ain’t seen nothing yet (Lost City, the third Eoin Miller book, lands in January, by the way.) To the writers, editors, marketing people, and to the crazy evil genius who organised the weekend, thank you for each giving me a little inspiration.
And to anyone who has stuck with it through this post, hoping to get to the end and find an answer as to why I write, well, sorry. I’m not answering it. I can’t because I don’t know.
I figure that I write in order to figure out why I write.
