Writing Joy: Or Why We Write in the First Place

The allurement of the written word is something of a siren song for those of us who hear its call. Our reasons may range from poetic to practical, mystical to effable, but as writers we are almost certain to dash our ships upon the rocks at more than one stage of our creative pursuit.

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There are very few professional pursuits with tougher odds of success. Millions of books are published every year and there is only so much space in the modern zeitgeist that is reserved for literature. Celebrity memoirs and political tell-all books tend to trend, and publishers are increasingly preferential to the bottom line rather than the best line.

And even those folks who do find some level of success are still not immune to bad reviews, editorial differences, or conflicts with publishers. There is a level of rejection you’re agreeing to the second you become a writer. Rejection from agents, editors, publishers, and readers. It is a built-in feature of the publishing world.

So, in an industry with so much failure, how do we measure success? Is it in sales? Cormac McCarthy never sold more than 2,000 hardcover copies of any of his novels until All The Pretty Horses was published. Were his previous novels (including Blood Meridian and Suttree) failures?

What about awards? My first novel, All Things Left Wild, won two coveted awards (The Spur Award and the Reading the West Award). My second novel, River, Sing Out, won nothing. I think the second novel is much better—but how can I quantify that if the “success” metrics argue otherwise?

The answer lies in the journey—in the work itself. The ups and downs, successes and failures, are all but guaranteed. It’s our job to remind ourselves why we write in the first place. If we don’t have reasons for writing that exist outside of success, outside of ego, then the pressure can crush us. We have to find joy in the act of writing, because we will never compile enough accolades or accomplishments to sustain ourselves without it.

I write because I love the beauty of language. To me, finding the right combination of words can be as artistic an endeavor as painting the Sistine Chapel. I love how a sentence or a paragraph based on the vocabulary or the pacing or the structure can cause me to feel real emotion. It can impact the tone or the vibe, or the way I’m perceiving the information that is being given to me. I love that Hemingway can use eight sentences to write 80 words, while Faulkner can write 80 words in one sentence, and neither one is wrong.

I write because there are so many things I need to work through on the page—like how the enormity of existence is matched only by its impermanence. How our lives are layered in ways we can’t comprehend—circumstances, choices, purpose, all of these themes and questions that I don’t have the answers to. And when I write, I don’t try to act as I do—because I don’t read books for the answers. I read them for the emotions, for the stories, and for that most-holy of agreements between author and reader that says we’re all human, we’re all lost, but for the next 300 pages, we’re in this together.

That’s all part of my “why,” part of the reason that I can’t quit working to improve as a writer, as a reader, and as a thinker. My whys won’t let me. They keep me moving forward.

I’ve talked to classrooms full of writers about their “why.” Some are unique, some are the same, but no answer is better than another. That’s the whole point—your “why” is personal. It’s yours. And it’s one of the only things in this entire industry that you get to control. For all of the outside forces, we are the ones who have the final say over why we write and the satisfaction we take in it.

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Reasons why authors write can run the gamut—from “I have such a love of prose,” to “writing is cheaper than therapy,” there is no wrong answer.

No matter your reasons for writing, if you can hold on to those reasons every time you sit down, you’ll never be uninspired. You may have bad writing sessions. You may have days that don’t turn out the way you wanted. But it won’t be for a lack of passion. And that’s important because as an author, you’ll spend 99% of your writing life alone at your desk or wherever you work.

And that’s the only non-negotiable part of this. It’s that your “why,” in some form or fashion, has to include loving the work—the 99% of lonely, maddening, frustratingly beautiful work.

If we can continuously find joy, find passion, find purpose in our writing, then all of those other things: rejection, publication, success, awards, money, reviews—all of it becomes secondary, all of it becomes background noise.

Writing is a form of meditation, of self-care. It forces us to look inward, to sit with ourselves and our thoughts. It’s a practice in patience, in discipline, and in empathy. It’s a sacred undertaking, from those who have come before to those who will soon pick up the pen. Writing is a joyous event that never ends. How lucky we are to attend.

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