Is Writing Fun?

By Elizabeth Engstrom

Is Writing Fun?

Well, yes. And no.

Writing is fun when I’m engaged in a project that I’m excited about, when the words flow, the characters come alive, I have time and solitude in which to immerse, and the muse and I are aligned as one.

Writing is not fun when there are too many distractions, when the plot holes develop, when I’m tired and the words are stuck like molasses in my psyche, when I feel like everything worthwhile has already been written, when I feel like a fraud and/or incompetent, and when I feel all that pressure to compete in the marketplace.

writing2

 

On a panel last April I was asked: “Will you ever retire from writing?” I’m sorry I gave the answer I did. I cited Chuck Barris of “Gong Show” fame, who said that when he quit the show he was going to move to the south of France and write books nobody would read.  That sounded glorious to me at the time, as I was struggling with editors, publishers, agents, marketing, and trying to write all at the same time. But I didn’t speak very eloquently about why that quote stuck with me.

What I should have said is: Do retired tennis players still play tennis?

Today I have fifteen books in print and am nearing the end of my writing career. I have the luxury of not worrying about much on a professional level. I write what I write. I abandon projects with abandon. I don’t cater to deadlines or others’ expectations. I don’t read my reviews (never have), and I don’t care what other people think of me or my work.

But it hasn’t always been this way. For decades, I struggled in the industry like everybody else.

Today, writing is fun for me. I’m working on a project now that makes me laugh out loud when I write, and at the end of the day I am wrung out and can’t wait to get back to it again tomorrow. There is no bleeding into the keyboard. There is no howling angst. I am not pouring my heart and soul into this work, I am playing, joyfully, with the talent I have been given, and I love it.

Will this project be successful? It already is.

So. What about you? Is writing fun?

Your Money or Your Muse

by Christina Lay

Not long ago I read an informative post about marketing for self-publishing writers and – surprise surprise – it rubbed me the wrong way. Not because I didn’t believe the writer’s observations, but because I’d prefer it if they weren’t true.

Her advice was, in a nutshell, when deciding what to write, you should “follow the market”. Okay, sure. If you’re one goal as a writer is to make money, this makes perfect sense. But what about following your heart, your muse, the inner voice that tells you which stories move you and which stories are just “meh”? This can be inexplicable to non-writers who tend to ask “why don’t you write the next Harry Potter Twilight Fifty Shades of the Davinci Fill In the Blank?” The writer of the aforementioned article, who writes (wrote?) YA, says she’s giving up on YA because kids don’t have disposable income. Hmmm.

money

Naturally, if you’re every bit as fired up to write a steamy thriller as you are that novel length prose poem exploring the social aspects of embroidery in the 1700s, I’d fully support a decision to go with the thriller. But if you love writing YA, do you really need to abandon it because you haven’t hit the mark with readers yet?

She also says she’s giving up a series she loves because it’s not selling. Again ,this might be totally legitimate if you’ve got other projects singing their siren song in your ear, but I’d really question the impulse to give up all the blood, sweat and tears you’ve put into a series solely based on financial considerations. I happen to think this is how we get inundated with mediocre shlock. Writers giving up what they love for what they know they can “crank out” and what, according to the numbers, people want to read.

I actually had one acquaintance suggest that I write what people want to read. If you can tell me (and the rest of the publishing world) what the next Harry Potter Twilight Fifty Shades of Divinci will be, do tell. But the truth is, what’s hot right now might be dead in the water tomorrow. What’s languishing in the backwaters of Amazon’s sub sub categories might suddenly leap into the bestseller ranks. Do I really want to let algorithms and rankings choose which stories I write?

Not so much. I was recently invited to write a book in a shared-world series. The idea was interesting, so I came up with an off-the-cuff idea and accepted. I have to admit I was more interested in riding on the coat tails of the more established authors included in the project than I was in the story I’d come up with, but I was sure I could find “the juice” and make the premise work for me. That book was one of the least rewarding things I’ve written. Yes, it had its moments, enough to get me through, but as I sent off my submission I wasn’t congratulating myself on a job done, but thinking “well, no writing is wasted writing”. In other words, I learned how to tough it out through a financially motivated project, but it left me feeling drained and hollow rather than triumphant. And when you finish an entire freakin’ novel, you should feel triumphant, at least for a little while.

Now I admit I’m not the best person to take marketing advice from (a glance at my Amazon rankings will tell the sad tale) but one thing I can tell you without hesitation is that I love to write. I am that annoying person who eagerly shuffles to the desk every single day and writes. Somehow, despite being under-published and underpaid, I’ve carved out a writing life for myself, and I have not done it by letting the market make my writing choices for me. So I guess my counter advice to “follow the market” is to ask yourself why you’re writing. Ask yourself what you want to write, which is often what you want to read. Ask yourself how you’re going to assign value to your work. Is it how much money you make, or how much joy it gives you? Then, make your choice. And with any luck, what you really want to write will become what people really want to read.

dennis

Magic Carpet

by Pamela Jean Herber

My muse came to me this morning. She looked out over the landscape of my novel. Through her eyes I saw a fantasy land where the primary settings of my story were large in proportion to the rest of the land. The hills and valleys rolled. The rivers flowed. Birds flew in playful swoops and chirped mirthful songs. I also saw deep dark wells of mystery, where spiders and weasels and bats and snakes lived, their eyes glowing. She allowed me to admire what I had created, what it was that I was bringing to life.

I felt myself pull back from the vision. It wasn’t real enough. I wanted my characters and the place to feel as real as this life I’m living now. My muse smiled at that thought. She then knelt down. She grasped a piece of the landscape in one hand and a piece in the other. She ripped the terrain loose from its holding. What tore free was a magic carpet of sorts. It pulsed in the air, a rollercoaster of motion. The fringed ends fluttered. Gold embroidery glinted beneath dust and grime. My muse shook the carpet violently. All sorts of chunks of things dusted up and fell away, disappearing into the blur below. I saw people falling and screaming, and goats bleating. Chairs and dining room tables and sofas and kitchen sinks flew helter-skelter.

She gave the carpet a few more hefty shakes. As the detritus fell away, the carpet began to show its true nature, all of its splendor, and began to take hold of itself. It no longer needed my muse to clean it up. It no longer needed my muse to tell it where to be or to flop it around.

I reached to take it back.

My muse sensed this and let go of the corners it had grasped so tightly. The carpet sped off into the distance.

I was furious. My novel needed armor to protect it. I would go after it. Find it. Build that armor. But I didn’t know how to go where it had gone.

My muse offered a hand to me. I hesitated before taking it. We flew across many landscapes until we reached a world, out in space, in its own orbit. She motioned toward it. She didn’t say a word to me but I understood. This was the magic carpet we had woven. It was whole. It was alive. It was perfect.