Talent Is Nice; Desire Is Everything

The only reason I’m a writer is because when I ask myself, “What else would I do?” I have no answer. I mean, I literally have no answer.

Yes, I might have distant, romantic dreams of becoming an architect, but I do not possess the necessary skills – not even close. For me, adding three numbers together is a reason to bust out my calculator. I could learn math; that’s an option. I’m smart, so I could probably BS my way into an architecture program if I really wanted to – but that’s the thing. I don’t want to.

Aspiring writers often get this advice: if you can do anything else, then do it.

Of course that’s true and I agree, but I would change “can” to “want to.” All of us have the ability to be a great number of things. It’s desire that drives us.

In order to be a writer, you have to want it more than you want anything else. You have to be obsessed. Unless you’re independently wealthy, you have to get a job while also working your true job as a writer in your free time, which means your free time will be limited. And even if you are independently wealthy and someone is bringing you meals on a tray, it will still be a constant struggle to put writing first on your priority list because life, like a toddler, constantly needs your attention. Even if you make no plans, something will arise. Your goldfish will die. Your sister will need to talk about her feelings right now. At some point, you’ll probably want to shower.

I know, this sounds so intense.

Well, it kind of is so intense.

What I’ve learned is that desire outweighs talent. It is far more important to want this than to be good at it.

In my MFA class, there was a brilliant writer. I mean, she is brilliant. When school ended, she gave up writing and got a high paying job. Why? Because writing was ruining her life. It made her feel sad and uncertain and stressed and she didn’t like being broke. She had to stop.

There was another person in this MFA class. In the interest of preserving my good karma, I won’t comment on her writing, but let’s just say that out of all the brilliant people I went to school with, she might not have been the one I pegged to score a sweet book deal. But she did, and good for her. She did the work. She put in the hours.

The way that Ann Patchett and Stephen King come at their craft appeals to me. They treat it like a job. Hours in equals product out. This might sound crass. I think, in the same way that I have romantic notions about what it means to be an architect, people have romantic notions about what it means to be a writer. And it is kind of romantic – when you’re holding a finished hardcover book in your hands. But until then, it’s you alone in a room. Can you handle you alone in a room?

When I tell people I’m a writer, a lot of them say, “I could never do that.” What they mean, I think, is that they could never sit for hours on end staring at a screen, doing all this work that might lead to nothing. I mean, it’s completely insane when you think about it. Why would you do that to yourself?

Because you’re a writer, and therefore, insane. Your masochistic desire to do this work outweighs all other desires, and you’ve dedicated yourself to sitting alone in a room, staring at a screen, for hours that become years that become the rest of your life.

If I ever have a kid and the kid tells me they’re going to be a writer, I will say, “Have you thought about architecture?”

I know, I’ve totally depressed you. This is so depressing. I haven’t said anything good about writing. I haven’t talked about the magic that happens when you’re alone in that room. I haven’t told you that when you figure out a way to say the thing you’ve been trying to say for a long time, it feels, for a moment, like life and everything in it makes sense, and I also haven’t mentioned that when somebody else reads that thing and tells you they saw themselves in it, you remember the reason you are doing this work is the same reason you read books. It’s to make a connection. It’s to feel less alone.

I know all the depressing things that I’ve said about writing here have probably been said to you before. If, when you hear about how hard it is, you know in your heart that you have to do it anyway, and if the story about my brilliant friend who stopped writing really pissed you off and you’re sure that will never be you, then it won’t be. If you’re not willing to accept “no” as an answer, then yes, you will be a writer. I’m not worried about you at all.

Since this was supposed to be an essay about writing tips, I’ll leave you with this, writer: Be intense. Be rigorous. It’s a practice. Forget the muse. Make your life work around your writing. Keep going. And own it early. I really wish I had owned it earlier. When someone at a party asks you what you do, do not say, “Well, I kind of want to be…” Do not be apologetic. Say, “I am a writer.” Then go home and write.

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Tags: . women writers, featured

Category: Contemporary Women Writers, How To and Tips