Why Write?—M.G.Sondraal

Love of the written word was engrained in me in childhood with books from home and my school library fueling my imagination. I remember after reading The Secret Garden toiling away writing the first pages of description of my springtime garden, over and over and over, never quite getting it right, whatever that meant to my nine-year-old self. If the writer within was only fledgling, the inner editor was fully formed.

I wrote several chapters of a romance when fourteen. I fell victim to displaying my extensive knowledge of Canadian geography in scene description and conversation between the unlikely romantic pair. There is no way the Canadian shield should ever be featured in a meet-cute event. But what did I know of fantasy romance at fourteen? The work was never completed understandably.

In adolescence I continued reading romance, science fiction and fantasy, but feeling betrayed when Agatha Christie faked a death in And Then There Were None I dropped crime fiction entirely. (I still believe she cheated and made it impossible to identify the killer. Unreliable narrators remain on my Do Not Read list.)

In high school, my reading was directed to “literature” by the school librarian stunned that I’d taken Oliver Twist off the shelf. She then provided me a list of 100 fiction books for the college bound and I worked my way through, once getting a novel “under the table” since Madame Bovary was not officially on the library shelves. I immersed myself in the various styles of accomplished authors.

It was a marvelous introduction into adult fiction. For many authors, I’ve now read their entire works with enthusiasm and awe. Others, despite their accolades, I don’t enjoy, and I’ve never read another page of theirs and feel no regret. This was a crucial lesson for me. Just because someone tells you a novel is great, doesn’t mean it will be that for you, and that’s okay. A writer isn’t producing a work for everyone. There’s a readership for every work, some large, some small. As I reader I can choose where I escape, depending on my mood, my time in life, my whim of the moment, knowing there’ll be an author for each that will satisfy.

I set aside creative writing for many years, occasionally scribbling something down when I could no longer suppress the urge. I’ve been writing for ten or twelve years now, beginning with the frantic 50,000 words in November with NaNoWriMo and the slow revision in stolen moments to 80,000 and first readable version over six months. I have days and sometimes weeks of wondering why I bother. I have a collection now of readable works. I’m not embarrassed to have written them and have some measure of satisfaction in each. I’ve learned a great deal, and I challenge myself with an improvement goal with each one (dialogue, first-person narrative, different voices for each character). I even write without NaNoWriMo as an impetus, and I write and revise at least five days weekly.

I’ve considered stopping and that debate still rages. With unscheduled time, I’ve devoted more hours to the craft than I’ve done previously but without defined purpose. I write consistently, not in precious moments carved out before morning coffee or just before bed. Whether I persist in this indulgence as faithfully remains a question. It seems a disproportionately large amount of time to create more drawer books, personally satisfying though they may be. I have no delusions of literary excellence about my writing even if I screwed up my courage, sought and secured an agent, and then a publisher. There are no awards in my future. Still, I’ve read published works that are worse than my own secret story stash. At least, to my read. (But I already established I don’t always appreciate highly recommended books.)

I suppose why I write is similar to why one sews a quilt rather than buys one. The product is the same. The second option is quicker and easier but the first is personal, and hobbies are important for mental health.

 I like the creativity of weaving disparate ideas and events into a coherent story arc that entertains me. It nourishes a part of me that I neglected for many years. Writing is satisfying, even if I never have an opportunity to share with a wider audience.

And as a hobby, it’s less expensive than quilt-making.

For now, that will be enough.