Why do I write?

Why do I write?  I want to give a noble answer – like saying that I always knew I’d be a writer, that I worshipped Louisa May Alcott, that I wrote my first story at the age of three.  I want to say that I need to write like I need to breathe. To feel a true calling must be awesome.

But it wasn’t that way for me.  I didn’t write much as a child. I wasn’t even an avid reader.  And when it came to literary education, I was kicked out of AP English in high school because I couldn’t keep up.

That high school flop actually makes sense, given the nature of my books.  What I couldn’t do in that high school class was interpret esoteric literature or write with exquisite lyricism myself.  Well, of course not. I was a people person even back then. I’m the go-to one when friends need an ear, and the advice I give is practical.  There is very little of an exquisitely lyrical nature to it.

And doesn’t this describe the books I’ve written?  My prose is more practical than lyrical. It is designed to tell a story, and those stories are filled with emotion, not grand metaphor, eloquent analogy, or obscure reference.  My characters are like people we know. The situations in which they find themselves are familiar to us. Readers relate to my books. It’s like I’m talking with them about their lives, as I used to do with my friends.

So, first and foremost, I write for my readers.  Pleasing them – engaging them – means the world to me.  My background isn’t literature, but psychology. And my books?  How about therapy in novel form? My books don’t just entertain; they soothe.  And this is noble, too.

That said, I spend hours and hours alone in my office with nary a reader in sight, so there has to be more.  Why do I write? Honestly? Viscerally? I write for me. Writing is an outlet for my imagination. It’s an escape for me when life is sour.  I write about current issues because they interest me. I write because I can.

Let me explain.

Imagination.  This I was born with.  From my earliest childhood, I would dream up stories to explain things I didn’t understand or create alternate explanations for things I didn’t like.  Take my mother’s death. She had breast cancer at a time when early diagnosis was nonexistent, and treatment was barbaric. I was eight when she died, and though she had been in and out of the hospital for five years, the finality of death was something else.  So I imagined various scenarios in which she would return. The most common one had her being whisked away, frozen and stored while the government perfected a cure, at which time she would be defrosted, treated, and returned to us. Needless to say, she stayed dead. But my imagination lives on.  Writing is an outlet for its expression.

Escape.  I penned my first novel when my sons were 9, 4, and 4.  Yep, twins there. And all boys. But I had grown up in a household of girls.  Nothing prepared me for the noise, mess and sheer physicality of boys. A weekend away once in a while would have been nice, but we didn’t have the money to travel.  So I imagined myself in other parts of the country, other parts of the world. When I was writing, there was no dirty laundry. There were no dinner dishes to clean, no baths to supervise, no spats to referee.  There were no bills to pay. I could go wherever I wanted, whenever I wanted. I could become someone else entirely.

Talk of escapes?  I’ve written my way through a breast cancer diagnosis and treatment.  I’ve written my way through delicate wedding planning, through tense grand-pregnancy worries, through horrendous house-building and upending home renovation and typical, if upsetting, marital spats.  I wrote my way through an election that was as upsetting as anything I’ve ever known. In all of these instances, writing has been my Ativan.

Purpose.  When the kids leave the nest and life mellows out to a hum, I would be at wits end if I didn’t have a focus.  I’m not one for coffee klatches, shopping has its limits, and I don’t play cards. Writing is what I do. And it isn’t just typing on a keyboard.  It’s plotting, working through the emotions of my characters, researching beach erosion or computer hacking or the taming of pit bulls. Most often, I write in the morning, but I think about my book through the day.  I think about it at night, too – like at two in the morning when a thorny plot issue wakes me up. But that’s OK. I don’t mind. Writing gives me direction. I need that.

Money.  Yup. Sounds crass.  But I write because I’m paid to do it.  This is my career. We’ve come to depend on what I earn.  Writer’s block? It happens. Same with cabin fever. There are those times — granted few and far between — when I could walk away from it all.  A signed contract is incentive not to do that.

Challenge.  That is what every new book means to me.  There’s the old saw that goes, Write about what you know.  But I’ve written a lot of books. Unless I want them to all be the same, I need to branch out.  When I tackle a new subject, I learn. When my mind is devoid of ideas, I push myself to find one.  I try for different plot twists – new ones – ones that may frighten me but that I know I can do if I try.

And I can. I do. It’s always worked for me, which leads to this final thought.

Why do I write?  I write because I can.  Yes, I can. I’m able to produce a book that pleases millions of readers, and their approval gratifies me on a deep and visceral level.  Is there any better reason than this?—

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BARBARA DELINSKY is the author of more than twenty-two New York Times bestselling novels.  There are over thirty-five million copies of her books in print, including those published in thirty languages worldwide.  Ms. Delinsky earned a B.A. at Tufts University and an M.A. at Boston College. Before she began writing fiction, she worked in Boston as a researcher for the Massachusetts Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children and as a photographer and reporter for The Belmont Herald. She decided to try her hand at fiction after she read a newspaper article profiling three successful female writers. Her first novel sold, and the rest is history for delighted readers around the world.

Ms. Delinsky lives, writes, and breathes New England, where she lives with her husband, two tennis racquets, and an iPhone filled with pictures of her kids and grandkids.  She loves engaging with reader, and can be reached at www.barbaradelinsky.com, www.facebook.com/bdelinsky, www.twitter.com/BarbaraDelinsky, or www.instagram.com/barbaradelinsky.  

 

About BEFORE AND AGAIN

From Barbara Delinsky, the New York Times bestselling author of Blueprints and Sweet Salt Air, a brand-new novel about a woman in hiding finding the courage to face the world again.

Mackenzie Cooper took her eyes off the road for just a moment but the resulting collision was enough to rob her not only of her beloved daughter but ultimately of her marriage, family, and friends―and thanks to the nonstop media coverage, even her privacy. Now she lives in Vermont under the name Maggie Reid, in a small house with her cats and dog. She’s thankful for the new friends she’s made―though she can’t risk telling them too much. And she takes satisfaction in working as a makeup artist at the luxurious local spa, helping clients hide the visible outward signs of their weariness, illnesses, and injuries. Covering up scars is a skill she has mastered.

Her only goal is to stay under the radar and make it through her remaining probation. But she isn’t the only one in this peaceful town with secrets. When a friend’s teenage son is thrust into the national spotlight, accused of hacking a powerful man’s Twitter account, Maggie is torn between pulling away and protecting herself―or stepping into the glare to be at their side. As the stunning truth behind their case is slowly revealed, Maggie’s own carefully constructed story begins to unravel as well. She knows all too well that what we need from each other in this difficult world is comfort. But to provide it, sometimes we need to travel far outside our comfort zones.

From a multimillion-selling master of women’s fiction, Before and Again is a story of the relationships we find ourselves in―mothers and daughters, spouses and siblings, true companions and fair-weather friends―and what kind of sacrifices we are or aren’t willing to make to sustain them through good times and bad.

Tags: featured, women writers

Category: On Writing