Have you ever thought about becoming a writer? If you're like me and most of my readers, you probably have. But even if you haven't, you should think about it.
Photo by mpclemens
Writing has done more for my life than I could have ever imagined. It has made me a better person, a better friend, and a better husband. It has even helped me to provide for myself and my family. And it can do the same for you, too.
Here are five reasons why you should consider becoming a writer:
1. Your job is to tell stories.
Sure, it would be great to be a published author, but the truth is that telling stories itself is intrinsically good. Humans are biologically wired for story. In many ways, we live for story and we live through story. I can't think of many jobs better than telling stories all the time.
2. You make people feel more alive.
I like to think of writing as life distilled. Writers point out the moments and details of life we miss in our fast-paced society. Writers offer people a glimpse into their own lives, and help them live better stories.
3. You can earn income from your passion.
The first time I got paid for something I wrote, I felt a warm glow for days. It's not easy to get rich from writing, but the satisfaction of knowing your passion provided for you and your family is an incredible feeling.
4. You experience things more deeply.
Writing can draw you deeper into the moment. It can help you understand people and why they do the things they do. If you want to write well, the writing itself will force you to experience your life more fully.
5. You get to bring meaning to the world.
It's easy to lose hope in our culture, to think everything is meaningless, to give up on the world and just chase after your own pleasure.
But I've gotten to spend the last five years of my life finding meaning in the nooks and crannies of life, the crevices most people miss because they're going too fast or they're too self-focused. Writing has helped me discover that my life is incredibly meaningful, and it's allowed me to share that meaning with the world.
I couldn't ask for a better job.
How would your life change if you became a published writer?
PRACTICE
Write something meaningful today. Spend fifteen minutes free-writing.
When you're finished, post your practice in the comments section. And if you post, be sure to give feedback to a few other writers.
Love the incentive here (be a better person, do meaningful work) as opposed to (be famous! write like Stephen King!). Can’t find the link for the mini-course…am i missing something?
Hi Grace! I’m so forgetful I forgot the most important thing. Here it is:
https://thewritepractice.com/class-write-practice-special/
Sorry about that!
Just like a writer. Always in a hurry to hit “publish”. 😉
Seriously!
i too do that 🙂 d
Just had to say Joe let me preview this course and it TRULY looks fantastic. I highly recommend this!
Love this, Joe. There is beauty in the world. Our job as writers is to shine light on it.
Joe – What I love about story is all that it can do. It can ask a question, give enlightenment, show love, erase anger, teach, correct and on and on. Story really is an incredible thing.
I agree, Jon. Isn’t it amazing?!
Yes, it truly is amazing.
When I was a little girl, in the mid-80s, I told my teachers
I wanted to be “the first woman president”. That was a popular response for
little 80s girls, when asked that overbearing and presumptuous question, “what
do you want to be when you grow up?” I
didn’t, of course, want to be the president, first woman or otherwise. But that
answer garnered much approval and praise and that’s what my parents and
teachers taught me to love. I lived in an ever-present state of gold-star or
happy-face-sticker longing. One misplaced ie (or was it ei?) and it was over. I’m
31 years old and to this day I still remember my horror-stricken five-year-old
kindergarten self, staring (but pretending not to) as my teacher turned my
happy face name sign to the sad face name sign. I’d been accused of whispering
during nap time. So much for that over-hyped concern that homeschooled kids
aren’t properly ‘socialized’, right? I figured I’d forget that day, but I haven’t.
It only happened once. I was such a people-pleasing
drone that I suffered through the entire first semester of kindergarten with an
art teacher who shamed me into using my right hand instead of my left hand. I
didn’t tell my regular teacher or my mother, because I wanted everyone to like
me. I wanted smiley faces. I wanted gold stars. I wanted to be like my right right-handed peers. Now of course
I realize that all the odd, off-ish, left-hand-leaning (even if they’re
right-handed) kids in school are the ones doing really neat stuff as adults. True,
I got to take part in making three really neat kids and I got to marry a really
great (off-ish, left-hand-leaning right-handed) guy, but I can’t wash from
myself the stench of having slogged so many years through the people-pleasing
bog. Why do we train kids to make us
happy? Why can’t we teach them to
love, show mercy, admire difference, dabble in much and find what makes them happy? I’m trying very hard to not raise cardboard
kids. My oldest likes to make up quirky songs, and though she’s been classified
as “gifted”, has atrocious handwriting and makes simple academic mistakes. We
don’t talk about gold stars or all As. I will myself not to ask her what she
wants to be when she grows up. She already is. My middle child is the most naturally off. He wears his underwear backwards
because the really cool pictures are on the butt-side of little boy underwear,
and he likes looking at it. He just began flag football and instead of running
the ball he delights in spinning and listening to the flags play in the wind.
When he listens to beautiful music he cries. He claims when people talk he sees
colors. I wonder that such a gem came from someone like me. My baby is the
three-going-on-thirty sort. I nursed her
until just after her third birthday (I suppose I have at least one foot out of
the mire, then?). She just wanted to be with me and nurse, even though she was
otherwise staunchly independent. When she said she wanted to wean (my kids grow
up knowing proper terms for things. They also say things like ‘penis’ and ‘vagina’.
I’m sure Oprah would frown upon that) we threw her a weaning party. She likes
digging in the dirt with screwdrivers and wearing stinky white cowboy boots
with everything.
Love this! I hate how the school environment puts so much pressure on kids to “fit in” and “be like everyone else.” That sort of thinking kills so much creativity and individuality. I’m glad you have been able to provide a better way for your kids.
Joe, your five reasons reminded me of a quote I read this morning by Frederick Buechner. Here’s the quote followed by my practice.
“Sometimes an event occurs in our lives through which we catch a glimpse of what our lives are all about and maybe even what life itself is all about and this glimpse of what “it’s all about” involves not just the present but the past and future too. Inhabitants of time that we are, we stand on such occasions with one foot in eternity.” Frederick Buechner
Writing for me is about stopping the clock and putting one foot in eternity. It allows me to look at life, as it attempts to whiz past unnoticed, and absorb the beauty and meaning in it. Everything I write is, in reality, a thank you note to God. I am taking the time and the opportunity to appreciate the gift of the mundane and random things of life, like the way my wife nibbles on an m&m one at a time, or how my granddaughter sucks her thumb with her fingers open instead of making a fist. Writing takes me on a path towards gratitude and humility, two things I desperately need in my life.
We are all in search of the meaning in life and it’s only when I write that I am able to focus long enough to discover it.
That’s beautiful, Tom. Both the quote and your reflection. Although I’m not sure how you thought of those beautiful words from Buechner after reading my mediocre post. 🙂
There is nothing mediocre about this:
But I’ve gotten to spend the last five years of my life finding meaning in the nooks and crannies of life, the crevices most people miss because they’re going too fast or they’re too self-focused. Writing has helped me discover that my life is incredibly meaningful, and it’s allowed me to share that meaning with the world.
Beautiful, Tom. Thanks so much for sharing.
That’s lovely. I love how it is helping you to appreciate the little things. When we think of creative writing, it’s hard not to think about ways to describe mountains and cities and the ocean. But thinking about how to write about the little familiar things – your wife and your granddaughter – that is thought provoking and beautiful!
Tom i love the quote and what you wrote/reflected on if u will this is a wonderful inspiration to me. thank you 🙂 d
I write because I love to. I am now in the midst of a novel that takes place in the year 1946. Tten a time warp happems, and the reader is brought back and forth between 1946 and 2012.I have the main charactor that is 18 years old, and suddenly finds herself in another year and decade.
Noel
interesting i would like to see how u do that
F. Scott Fitzgerald said that “You don’t write because you want to say something, you write because you have something to say.”
I write because I want to say something positive about the human spirit and the potential within us all. I write because I have stories that need to be told and ideas that need to be expressed. I want people to come away from my writing full of hope and imparted with the idea that you can rise above your means to become a better person. A storyteller is saying so much more than the words on the page and the actions of their characters. In my stories I am weaving a much bigger narrative that says something about life and the limitless possibilities therein. When I first learned to read I remember being amazed at the world out there just beyond my door and enchanted by the fact that the words on the page could transport me into the worlds of Jules Verne, Mark Twain, Alexandre Dumas, J.R Tolkien, F. Scott Fitzgerald, David Eddings, Johann David Wyss and countless other authors. These books were not only great adventures, but they taught me something. In those pages I learned about honor, respect, love, tradition, & faith to name a few. I saw in those pages how to be a better man. That is why I write. I want to tell a compelling story that says so much more then is on the page. Writing is exciting and a good story that needs to be told is why I sit in front of a keyboard seeing where it will take me.
The last point is the reason that I waited so long to really pursue writing with any commitment. When I was younger, I knew I wanted to write. I also knew I truly had nothing useful to say. Not that I think I will write the next Great American Novel. But with maturity has come thoughtfulness and the words flow out of that thoughtfulness. Now, I am a writer.
Red-and-blue lights flash in the night. People filling up at the gas station probably wonder what’s going on. One minute, the ambulance was sitting idly in the parking lot, the EMTs chatting or playing with their phones while awaiting the next life-and-death situation. The next minute, the ambulence still sits, but not idly. The blinding lights splash everyting around them in color.
But the sirens aren’t blaring. This is not an emergency. In front of the ambulence stands a young man, clapping, smiling, innocent joy radiating from his face. The EMTs, too, are smiling. They love him, the boy. While many 17-year-olds are caught up in sports and girlfriends, this is where he is himself. He can’t drive or play football, he has no girlfriend. He is small for his age, a symptom of the extra chromosome that holds him back in so many areas.
But not in this. Nothing comes between him and his ambulence friends.
I wonder if they know how much they mean to him. How he is drawn to every book graced with pictures of ambulences. How he treasures his collection of toy ambulences. How he looks forward each day to visiting them again. How he looks up to them as celebrities. How their kindness blesses him, a boy whose only request is to visit them and their flashing lights once again.
Very nice!
Everyone has a story inside them, and
as I sit and watch the people all around me I think about that fact.
Every person has a history, things that happened to help shape them,
a past and a future. The cars that drive past me on the road are
moving stories. Each person seated, whether they are driver or
passenger, has a life they are meant to live. If we could collect all these stories, we could learn so much.
I’ve often had a crazy inkling to go
door to door in my neighborhood and start collecting stories. I know
I’d be surprised, saddened, amazed, touched, moved, and exit each home better than I was before I went knocking. Of course, some would probably shut the door in my face, but more than anything, I wonder how many would
invite me in for a drink, pull out their photo albums and breathe out the soul of their lives while I intently listen.
People want to be heard. They have
things to say, dreams to share, pasts to push out of mind by sharing their locked up demons. How many really just want someone to talk to,
someone to listen without judgment, someone to nod and ingest all
the sentences and paragraphs of their life without edit? How many
are holding onto anger, jealousy, regret, hatred, envy, worry,
sadness, yearning? How many would love to share joy, love, happy
memories, tips for life and nuggets of wisdom? How many need a
release to get them through their day? I know I do.
I recall a moment around a campfire at
a family beach party. I had a story to tell and I began to share.
Before I could finish, I had three people cutting me off to tell
their story. I was drowned out before I could go any further. My
sentence was left wandering in the sand searching for someone to
care, for someone to catch and cherish its meaning. I was left
voiceless among a crowd of people I call family. I was surrounded by
loved ones yet I felt as though I was standing alone.
I can so empathize with this! I’ve been going around with a notebook lately filling it up with people’s stories, stories people shared joyfully and stories where each word was a stone off their chest.
OK, I cheated here a little. Below is the post I just did on my own blog. I wanted to write about how to handle the combination of action and dialogue, and the story got more involved than I thought it would. Let me know what you think:
The Muse smacked me in the
back of the head on her way by. It hurt. A lot.”You can’t just go for
a novel that’s straight dialogue or straight action,” she scolded. “You have to
have a good mix of both if you want people to get into your story.”I
looked up from my desk and prepared a witty retort, but she was already gone.
The door to my office slammed behind her as she left, and I know she wanted me
to give chase. I hated when she did things like that.Getting up, I
strode to the door and yanked it open. “Get back here, you little bitch. You
still owe me another 500 words before I can turn in for the night.””You
can look, but you’ll never find me.” Her soft voice carried through the house,
and I knew it wouldn’t be easy to figure out where she was hiding, but that
didn’t mean I could give up.I crept down the stairs and into the
darkened kitchen. The light by the stove was on, so I wasn’t completely blind.
Still, the paltry shadows cast by the light didn’t help me much. I looked under
the table and peered between the cook books, but there wasn’t a trace of
her.”Come on out,” I said. “I’m tired, and this isn’t funny any
longer.”But there was nothing. She was putting up a good fight tonight,
and I needed to focus if I wanted to not only find her, but get her to cooperate
as well.There were flashlights in the silverware drawer, so I grabbed
one that was pink and a little stubby – it belonged to my wife – and shined the
light into the pantry. I moved a couple of boxes of rice, as well as a can of
soup that was a keepsake from college, but she didn’t leap out.”This is
ridiculous,” I mumbled.”You’re just not trying hard enough,” she called
out.My head instantly swiveled towards the TV room and the leather
recliner in the corner. She might’ve made good use of the acoustics, but I was
close enough now to know where she was. I walked towards the chair heel to toe
so as not to make a lot of noise. If I scared her off, who knew how long it’d
take me to find her again.I jumped on the chair and looked over the
top. “Aha!”She was curled up in a ball on the floor, but as soon as she
saw me, she grinned. The Muse stood and dusted herself off.”That was
fun,” she said, “but don’t think this ends the evening’s entertainment. You
still haven’t caught me.”She tried to make a break for the stairs, but
I’d anticipated that. With speed belying my age, I leapt from the chair and
tackled her, wrestling the snooty woman to the ground and pinning down her
arms.”You are going to help me tonight. I’m 500 words short of my goal,
and if you don’t give them to me, I can’t go to sleep.””Aw, poor baby
cannot figure his story out,” she said in a mock whiny voice. She puffed out
her lips for emphasis. “Maybe this will help you go to sleep.”And she
head butted me.It took a second for the pain to register, and another
second for me to realize that she was off and running again. For a mythical
creature that’s supposed to as old as time itself, she was surprisingly
nimble.Once I shook out the cobwebs, I got to my feet and took off after
her again, clomping up the stairs and headed for my office before she could lock
me out. That had happened once before and I ended up sleeping on the couch and
trying to explain to Sherry the next morning why I’d failed to come to bed. My
sordid stories of trying to chase down a half naked Greek goddess didn’t go over
too well.But this time she didn’t lock the door. I burst through it to
find her perched on my desk. She lazily pushed down one of the straps on her
shoulder.”Wouldn’t you rather think of something else besides that
stupid story?” she asked with a wink.”Not really,” I replied. “I’m
tired, and I just want to pump out the rest of this chapter so I can stop
worrying about it. Now, how does the vampire get into the compound?””We
may never know,” she said.That did it. I raced over to her and put her
in the hardest headlock I could. “Dammit, just give it up! Does he leap over
the railing, or was he in the car with the main character the whole
time?”When she didn’t speak, I tightened my grip, but she flipped me
over and I found myself falling over the desk and onto the floor. However, I
still had her by the throat, and I wasn’t about to let go.”Fine,” she
breathed. “He used the trees by the southeast corner and jumped over. He also
spotted the main character before the van left, so he’ll be following him onto
the second floor balcony.”I released my grip and looked at her.
Panting, I said, “Now, was that so hard?”For her part, the Muse didn’t
look phased at all. In fact, she even wore a bemused smile. She hopped up on
my desk and crossed her legs.”The chase is part of the fun,” she said.
“If I just told you what to do without much action behind it, you wouldn’t
appreciate me as much.”I pushed her out of the way and sat at my laptop
again to churn out the last part of the chapter. She looked over my shoulder
and whispered a few words of encouragement into my ear. It may have felt good,
but there were times I wish I’d simply bought a dog instead.
Didn’t copy and paste as well as I would’ve liked. 😛
That was great!
I LOVE this!!!! That is so cool. Your muse certainly puts up a fight doesn’t she?? Wow…As well as the chase and all the action, I loved all the little bits – the fact that the pink stubby flash light is your wife’s (and the the fact that you felt you needed to point that out, haha), and that you have a can of soup from your college days – tells us a lot about you.
Awesome writing RD!
Hi Joe, great post 🙂 I like all five of your comment and I just wanted to add to your #4…I love that writing can help you to experience things you’ve never even experienced before. It’s great how you can pick anything or anyone to ‘channel’ into one of our stories.
My reason for being a writer is I can’t live without writing. Writing has been a part of who I am and I need to write, even if it’s not for a paid project. It’s very fortunate that I get to make a living doing what I love and know best.
Becoming a writer is not really that simple, so the thought and consideration is always necessary. thank you for sharing this post to us.