As we near mid-March 2025, I glance back at my writing planner. It’s presence is a balm, soothing my worries that I’m not accomplishing enough. Within its pages are my triumphs and challenges, inspirations and frustrations. Each little check mark a reminder of which days I overcame my perfectionism, imposter syndrome, and ADHD-induced executive dysfunction. And while there may be more X’s than check marks, or days where I didn’t do anything for my craft, I still am taken by surprise at how much I have been able to accomplish.
This is a beacon on my dark days, where the murky waters of ever-rising self-expectations are threaten to overtake me.
I’ve been “writing” ever since I was 13. Maybe 12; it’s hard to remember. Now, inching closer to the mid-thirties club, I’d say I know, like, 2 things about writing. Firstly, that it is a challenging craft. Secondly, that it has potential to bring such joy and such heartache in a person’s life.
Writing to me has been my closest companion throughout the years we’ve known each other. A constant, reassuring companion while I was a young teenager. Awkward and shy as a young adult. Protective and scared in my twenties. Now? Finally trying to find my voice and feeling tiny bits of true confidence.
We’ve come a long way, she and I.
Let’s go back to the 2 things I know about this craft. Saying that “writing is hard” is quite an understatement. It’s more than just putting pretty words on paper. What’s your main character’s Ghost? Their Lie? What type of character arc do they have? What’s your thematic premise? How’s your Scene-Sequel shapes coming along?
It all makes my head spin, and I know what those questions are asking. I hadn’t thought about any of these things prior to a few years ago. I didn’t even know these things existed and mattered. Instead, I put my pretty words on paper and told a story. Maybe not a fleshed out, functional, well-rounded story, but a story nonetheless. But now that I’ve gotten older, I’m challenging myself to learn more, grow more, be more in this craft.
Which brings us to the second point of what I know about writing. The joy…and the heartache.
You see, writing down a well-constructed paragraph is one thing. Letting someone read it is something else entirely. But that’s not what causes the heartache (for me, at least). No, that’s what causes the anxiety, imposter syndrome, and many other emotions. The heartache comes from the constant tug-of-war between writing for enjoyment and writing for publication. But wait, J! You might say. Does this mean authors don’t enjoy writing? No, I’m not saying that. What I mean is that writing for enjoyment and writing for publication are two very different things (for me, at least).
When I write for enjoyment, it’s usually because there’s a particular scene stuck in my head and I’ve got to get it out on paper. It may have nothing to do with my work in progress but may involve some of the same characters. I’m not worrying about anything when I write for enjoyment. No thematic principles, no Scene-Sequel shapes, just words on paper, and they don’t even have to be pretty words.
I wrote for enjoyment at lot as a teenager and young adult. Ignorance to “proper” writing technique really was bliss. But then I started to try to take my enjoyment writing and query it for publication. Oof. The heartache was bad. Besides being ghosted by most of the agents I queried, I got all rejections from anyone that did bother to email me back. Bless those agents that took the time to read my little query. I hadn’t the slightest idea of what I was doing.
Then I joined a writing critique group from people I met on Facebook. The initial group was a bit overwhelming, and when the writing well dried up, as it does from time to time, I exited the group. It wasn’t until someone from it reached out to me, asking for me to rejoin. There weren’t many of them left, 3 which would become 2, but I agreed. And boy did that springboard my writing education! Now it’s a regular gig. We meet about every other week and deep dive into the craft, talk about our life, and lift each other up.
When I first started letting strangers read my work, hell, when I first let my friends read my work, I was very sensitive and protective of my pretty words and my characters. A little too sensitive. I couldn’t take criticism well, and my friends really did their best to lay it on gently. It felt too raw to be this vulnerable. Writing was (and still is) an essence of my very soul. How could I possibly be wrong about it? “Wrong” isn’t the right word now, but that’s what I felt back then.
I’m supposed to be talking about heartache, aren’t I?
You see, writing for publication (traditional publication, that is) is all about following the current rules, in my opinion. I don’t actually know what those rules are at this point, but once you find them, you stick to them. Until they change, then you change, too. Remember the “Said is dead” movement? Like, using the word “said” to denote someone speaking is overdone. Now the rule is that dialogue tags should rarely use something other than “said” to blend in and not be noticeable. *Eye roll*
The problem with me wanting to publish my work eventually is that I have to fit myself into these pre-set molds and follow these pre-determined rules. For some, this may be a beautiful roadmap that helps them. For others, it’s a prison that hinders their creativity. For me, it’s someone in the middle. I’ll get obsessed with following these rules and shoving my manuscript into the molds that I lose sight of the joy writing can bring. Writing becomes the product, not the process. And that is the heartache. Because let me tell ya from experience, forgetting your thematic principle or your character arc or any of those other things becomes a huge undertaking to put them back in once the manuscript is done. I’d say it’s nearly impossible without rewriting the book. So then you have to start the manuscript with those in mind from the beginning. Think too heavily about it, and writing becomes the product, not the process. It’s all a balancing game, and one I’m still figuring out.
So what is writing to me?
It’s a journey I’d choose a thousand times over, heartache and all.
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