Sometimes I am full of self-doubt. I am sure I am not alone in this feeling. A lot of people feel this way. Definitely, all the introverts, and most (all?) of the artists are introverts.
A Sense of Doubt blog post #3739 - Writing Wednesday: On Writing: Be Fearless
Sunday, April 10, 2022
A Sense of Doubt blog post #2609 - Magic Systems and World Building
If I wasn't a writer
...would life be simpler?
https://katebrook.substack.com/p/if-i-wasnt-a-writer
I’m spending a lot of time writing long-form at the moment, working on my second novel. That was the reason I spent the month of August in Quebec City, which was a huge privilege, and since I got back, I’ve been trying to keep up the momentum with the aim of finishing a first draft this side of Christmas. It’s been a lot of fun; it’s very exciting to feel like I might finally be getting somewhere with the manuscript I’ve been grappling with for the best part of three years, and there are moments — more and more of them as things start to come together — of real fulfilment and pride.
And yet, it also feels undeniable sometimes that life would be an awful lot simpler, and in some ways nicer, if I wasn’t a writer.
To be clear, when I say ‘writer’ I mean a person who feels a compulsion to write, who has some sort of deep-seated, non-negotiable, possibly inexplicable desire to put things into words on a page. I don’t mean a person who makes a living from writing. It’s easy to not be the second kind of writer. Just… don’t make a living from writing! Nothing could be more achievable!
But shaking off the desire to write is much harder. Perhaps impossible, although I don’t really know — I don’t get the sense that it’s often attempted. Those with the desire to write generally address that desire by… well, by writing. Not by working on being happy not writing. Why that is, I’m not entirely sure. It’s not as though there aren’t other things to do, and there’s certainly more than enough writing in the world already.
If I wasn’t a writer, there are certain things in my life that would be easier. Reading, for example. I would probably read many more books than I do now, and I would read them solely for my own enjoyment and edification. I wouldn’t read them with half an eye on ‘the market’. I wouldn’t feel pressure to read because ‘all writers are readers’. I wouldn’t put good books down halfway through because they’re so good they make me want to start writing instead, to see if I can write something of equal quality. I wouldn’t ever think: ‘Why did this book sell twenty times as many copies as mine? Is it really twenty times better?’
If I wasn’t a writer, perhaps I could contemplate the idea of having children (I’m 35, decisions need to be made) without feeling like I have to make a choice between two big, important, life-defining things: one that would likely bring me a lot of joy and love, and the other, the thing I’ve done and dreamed of doing since I was a little girl.
If I wasn’t a writer, I might have half a chance of job satisfaction in a role with a decent, regular salary, with paid holiday and paid sick leave and a Christmas bonus — kind of like the job I recently left, in fact. I could look at all the facts about the difficulty of earning money from one’s words due to the sorry state of publishing and journalism under late-stage capitalism, or at the threats AI poses to human creativity, and think, well, that’s a shame, but it doesn’t affect me personally. I certainly wouldn’t think: I know! I’ll quit my job, kick off my security blanket, stride out into the unknown, and give it a shot anyway.
If I wasn’t a writer, perhaps I wouldn’t feel compelled to spend so much of my life sitting down and staring at a laptop screen, locked in something akin to a trance, unable to tear myself away, and finding when I look up that hours have passed without my noticing. Perhaps I would spend that time doing things more obviously good for me and for the world: going outside, meditating, volunteering, batch cooking nourishing meals, having hobbies. Oh my God, the hobbies. I’d have so many: knitting, sewing, baking, drawing, playing the piano. My balcony garden would be much better cared for. Maybe I’d have an allotment.
I would spend more time, I think, doing things that make me feel calm and content. Contentment, I believe, is more than just a pleasant feeling. It’s a form of freedom — freedom to be at peace with the way things are, freedom from the nagging sense that something could be better.
When you’re a writer, something could always be better. You could have more time to write. You could have more recognition. You could earn more money. You could be making more tangible and quantifiable progress. You could be a better writer. And even if you’ve just written the best sentence you possibly could have, and you are delighted with it, and elated by it, and you feel like you are at the pinnacle of your creative powers, even then the next sentence is always still there in the wings, waiting impatiently to be written. You’re never done.
What drives me to write is a sort of ambitious agitation, which has less to do with contentment than with thrill-seeking. Quiet, sedentary thrill-seeking, but thrill-seeking nonetheless. It’s a kind of hunger, and sometimes it brings joy, elation, deep satisfaction. But it can’t ever be truly satiated. I will never be able to say all the things I want to say or complete all the projects I dream of. There will always be more to write about.
That’s a good thing, in many ways; it gives me purpose and motivation and drive. But it doesn’t easily coexist with a state of mind in which I feel that everything is just right. That things are perfectly fine as they are, in this moment, right now. I know it’s possible to feel that way, because I’ve felt it: looking at the view from the highest point of a hike, breaking for tea after a group meditation session, listening to a beautiful piece of music. The moments when my inner Buddhist monk wins out over my inner tortured artist are perhaps the times I feel most truly grateful to be alive.
So I do sometimes think that life would be simpler if I wasn’t a writer. Sometimes I think I might even be happier.
And at the same time, beyond all shadow of a doubt, I wouldn’t stop being a writer for the world.
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- Days ago: MOM = 4052 days ago & DAD = 706 days ago
- New note - On 1807.06, I ceased daily transmission of my Hey Mom feature after three years of daily conversations. I post Hey Mom blog entries on special occasions. I post the days since ("Days Ago") count on my blog each day, and now I have a second count for Days since my Dad died on August 28, 2024. I am now in the same time zone as Google! So, when I post at 10:10 a.m. PDT to coincide with the time of Mom's death, I am now actually posting late, so it's really 1:10 p.m. EDT. But I will continue to use the time stamp of 10:10 a.m. to remember the time of her death and sometimes 13:40 EDT for the time of Dad's death. The blog entry numbering in the title has changed to reflect total Sense of Doubt posts since I began the blog on 0705.04, which include Hey Mom posts, Daily Bowie posts, and Sense of Doubt posts. Hey Mom posts will still be numbered sequentially. New Hey Mom posts will use the same format as all the other Hey Mom posts; all other posts will feature this format seen here.
