The wisdom of the zeitgeist says, “Follow your dreams. Don't settle for a job you don't love. You have to be passionate about what you do.”
And so many writing blogs say, “If you want to be a writer, go for it! Follow your passion!”
However, the truth is that if you look at the people who really love what they do, you find that most of them didn't follow this rule. In fact, they often stumbled into their career.
Maybe the truism, “Follow your dream, pursue your passion,” is bad advice. Maybe becoming a writer just because you love to write isn't a good enough reason.
Don't Follow Your Passion
In his 2005 commencement to Stanford, Steve Jobs said, “You've got to find what you love… the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven't found it yet, keep looking and don't settle.” He received a standing ovation, and the youtube video went viral.
But Steve Jobs never followed his own advice. He stumbled upon the founding of start Apple because he wanted to make a little quick cash while he was working at a commune and studying Zen. He wasn't passionate about computers. He was passionate about Eastern mysticism and had recently returned from a pilgrimage to India. As Cal Newport says in his new book, So Good They Can't Ignore You, “If a young Steve Jobs had taken his own advice and decided to only pursue work he loved, we would probably find him today as one of the Los Altos Zen Center's most popular teachers.”
If you want to make a living as a writer because you're passionate about it, or because you dreamed about becoming a writer when you were a kid, you don't have a good enough reason.
It's not about you. It's about whether your readers want to read what you have to write.
That being said, I'll never discourage you from writing. Writing is fun! It's cathartic. It's cheaper than a therapist. Writing can bring wholeness and meaning to your life. If you want to write, do it!
Just don't expect to be able to make a career out of it just because you enjoy it.
The Best Way to Become a Writer
If I haven't scared you off and you still want to become a writer, Cal Newport would tell you to follow Steve Martin's advice. In 2007, Martin was interviewed by Charlie Rose, who asked him what he tells young people who want to be just like him.
“Be so good they can't ignore you,” says Martin.”If somebody's thinking, ‘How can I be really good?' people are going to come to you.”
It took Martin ten years to become good enough they couldn't ignore him, and now he's a legend.
If you want to be a writer, you need to write. You need to practice. You need to ask yourself constantly, “How can I be really good?” You need to do this for about ten years. Then, you might have a shot.
And if that's what you want, you know we'll be here to practice with you.
Cal Newport's book So Good They Can't Ignore You is available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and at a bookstore near you. I recommend it.
What do you think about the advice, follow your passion?
PRACTICE
If you want to be a writer, you have to practice. Today, write about a struggling writer, trying to get good enough to write for a living.
Write for fifteen minutes. When you're finished, post your practice in the comments section. And if you post, be sure to help a few other writers by giving them feedback on their work.
Good luck!
Thank you for such thought-provoking blog posts.
🙂
But didn’t Steve find Zen in the computers and the other products he made? The beauty of the iPhone isn’t just convenience, but in the design. Something other, perhaps Zen-less companies, lack. In that sense, he took something he loved and applied to something else that he at least liked a whole lot.
Of course. But that’s not following your passion. That’s applying what you’re passionate about to the things you do for WORK (that evil four-letter word).
I can so resonate with this Joe. The strange thing was it happened with my other career Asa financial strategist. I fell into it because it was something to pay the bills and then got so immersed in it for so many years that Yes, they couldn’t ignore me. In the process, I didn’t write a word of fiction from the age of 25 to 35 despite my passion for all things literary. I’ve picked up the pen again… but it’s been two decades rebuilding skills. I’m finally getting proficient… I think. Thanks for founding this community to allow me to practice. We all need to.
You’re a great example of someone who takes practice incredibly seriously, Oddznns. You inspire me.
I think this is my favorite thing you’ve written so far. This is hard advice but so wise. I didn’t even know I was a writer until I was hired to be one. And I’m halfway there to 10 years so I’m encouraged. What you said resonates with me.
Thanks Shelly! What a great testimony to stumbling into something, “I didn’t even know I was a writer until I was hired to be one.” That sounds like a story I need to hear!
Well, I just happened to write a story about it recently. 🙂
http://redemptionsbeauty.wordpress.com/2012/09/04/when-someone-believes-in-you-more-than-you-believe-in-yourself/
Ira bought the 1940s Smith Corona
typewriter for $5.00 at a garage sale and bought a new
ribbon for $8.50 on Amazon because he thought it would inspire his
writing. The only thing it inspired was a cramp in his left pinky
from pushing down the heavy manual carriage to produce an “a.”
After searching the internet, he found
an online video tutorial detailing how to fix the sticky “t” and
“l” keys. Doubting his mechanical abilities, he googled “old
typewriter repair shops” and found one 31 miles away. If he left
by 9:00 he could make it back by 1:00, figuring in traffic on the
Long Island Expressway, and still crank out some writing before
dinner time. That’s when he realized the typewriter must hold a
curse to waste the time of writers. He photographed the typewriter,
tucked it into its hard case and spent 25 minutes downloading the
pictures and placing an ad on Craigslist. He wrote “Vintage
typewriter for sale-$20.”
The blinking cursor of a fresh text
document was assaulting him when the phone rang.
“Yes, the typewriter is still for
sale . . . Sure, yep works great. New ribbon and everything. Ah
sure, I know where the Target is. I could meet you there around
10:00.”
He would be home by 11:00 and lay some
words down. He planned on a quick stop at Starbucks with his small
profit. He found the woman’s orange jeep easily as soon as he turned
into the parking lot. She said the typewriter was just what she had
been looking for and paid him. Ira was back on his couch, laptop in
lap, sipping a grande Iced Caramel Macchiato, when the phone rang.
It was the woman again, politely explaining that the typewriter
wasn’t working correctly. A man’s voice was shouting curses in the
background.
“Listen, I can give you your money
back. No problem. I can meet you at Target again. What? Oh, you
can’t? Well ok, I can meet your boyfriend instead. Umm, is he the
one yelling? Uh huh, ok, I’ll see him at 12:30 then.”
Ira grabbed his keys and took one more sip of his caramel macchiato which now tasted brackish.
Great take on the writing life! Of course, stories like this are hilarious. Why is that? A story about a struggling writer is de facto funny. I’m glad to be in a profession where we can laugh at ourselves.
Even
with the door to his study closed, Steve could hear the Annie and
Anita as Zelda hustled them into the toy room.
“Daddy
come now?” Annie’ voice, the younger, the two-year-old.
“Maybe
later. Daddy has to work.”
“You’re
not working today,” said five-year-old Anita. “Why does Daddy
have to?”
Steve
sat as his desk, eyes closed, as his laptop cranked up. All day
Saturday alone in his sanctum, that was the agreement.
“You
could hide out and write a couple weeknights, too,” Zelda had said.
“Especially after the girls have gone to bed.”
Theoretically,
that was true. In practice, by the time he picked up the girls from
daycare, saw them home and unbundled, made it through supper and put
the dishes away, all he wanted was a beer and a good dose of
television. Every time he’d tried to write on a weeknight, he’d
stared at his screen for an hour then thrown away the few forced,
ugly words the following Saturday. Steve was certain Hemingway
hadn’t made his mark as a one-day-a-week wonder. If they could just
get a few bucks ahead, maybe he could lop some hours off his day job.
He
clicked open his Garden of Rain file. Garden of Rain
version 3.0, to be more accurate. He’d started the second
rewrite, but around page forty Melissa had wanted to dump Arthur and
move in with Lance, something the story up to now didn’t support. So
he’d stopped with the story and started exploring other things
Melissa might do. The last thing he’d typed was
SCREW
THIS GARBAGE
This
fresh Saturday morning had better give him a new perspective.
A
child’s hand slapped his door. He opened his eyes, glanced at the
clock on his screen. 9:53. He’d been zoned out for almost an hour.
He imagined Melissa asking him, okay, I’ve been waiting, now what
do I do? and he thought back, just hold that pose, I’ll be
back in a minute.
“Annie!”
Zelda called. “Come back in here and let Daddy work.”
Hell
of a word, work, Steve thought. Wasn’t work supposed to
produce something?
can feel the angst
Can so relate!
I’m right there with you!
Tom feels the floor shift under his desk chair as he hears the door slam shut. His hairy back bristles against the reality as he writes yet another sentence.
[She never understood him.]
He sucks back a tear as he hears her start the car and drive away. He rubs away the remnant from his red eyes and stares into the light. The monitor is his only light in the dark, empty house. He blinks a couple of times and types.
[The self-centered bitch sabatoged his dream at every turn.]
Normally Tom welcomes the quiet, but not tonight. Tonight the silence only serves to amplify her rejection, but he writes on.
[She was done. She was tired of the lonely nights while he closed himself off from her world.]
Tom’s head tilts to one side as he rereads the sentence. He studies the screen as if someone from inside the computer was sending him a message. He continues.
[All she ever wanted was to be in love with a writer, for him to write her beautiful sonnets and songs. But she also needed him to be in love with her, not just his writing.]
Tom pushes away from the computer screen and grabs his chest. He wonders if it’s a heart attack or a heart break and decides on the latter. He spins around in his chair, grabs his keys and heads for his car. As he drives away, he realizes he will never write a good story unless his lives a good story.
Tom… I love that. You reveal an important hitch in the writing life… the mate who needs more of “you”. My wife once blew the whistle on me — she said, Listen, PJ, I know I’m low-maintenance, but I’m not NO maintenance. I stepped back from my mad schedule for a while… until she once again lost herself in her own writing.
living is key
Wow. A lot of complexity in a short piece. The writer, his dying relationship, his epiphany.
Inevitably the question ended up being directed at her. Jeremy had answered in longhand, as if being a psychiatric nurse gave you extra kudos in verbosity stakes. Louisa, bless her, had managed to sound ever so humble whilst saying department store area manager. Carlos puffed out his chest as he spoke the word chef.
A barely audible “writer” came from her lips, there was open scoffing, immediate prodding and a few less than well hidden guffaws. She then became the quarry in a game of beat up the victim. All in the best possible taste and for the best motives.
Why was being a writer so unbelievable? Was it not a real job? Did JK have the same problems? Actually thinking of JK she began a virtual bet on which critic would slam her book first and most vehemently. Everyone knew she was going to fail, didn’t they?
She answered their questions, no she wasn’t published, no she made no money, no there was no future and then she quietly stood up and screamed “I AM A WRITER BECAUSE I CAN NOT BE ANYTHING ELSE OTHER THAN A WRITER”
She walked out of the bar, into the fresh air, determined to read JK’s novel with an open mind when her attention was peaked by a caterpillar ever so slowly making its way across the pavement. That is me she thought, slowly plodding through the daily word count which will metamorphose into a critically acclaimed best-seller…
You are becoming a magnificent butterfly with your writing, displaying beauty as you spread your wings, pollinating encouragement to other writers around your literary garden.
I am soooo relieved she didn’t squish the caterpillar before it’s time.
thanks Tom
I just love comments like: Why don’t you work under me selling skin care until this writing thing works out?
Writing is a real job, but Joe does have a point. I have written for money and I have written for passion. Sometimes at the same time. And those times were really fantastic.
It does seem to be a big joke for those who think that writing is as simple as putting pen to paper…
On second thought, that’s not such a great example.
Ha ha!
I love this (I tried to reply yesterday and for some reason it wouldn’t let me). I especially love her screaming reply!
I never dreamed of writing. As a matter of fact, I dreaded anything to do with it. Every time I got to a class and it was revealed that I must write every week to pass, I, at times, regretted ever doing college. It was when I was assigned to write about specific topics and asked if I had thought about writing outside of school, in a blog of sorts. I must have stumbled upon something. Others noticed the depth of my writing first, not I. I soon found it was a mechanism to work out my inner soul and express my emotions, as they appeared. Soon, it became a passion and well needed one. My heart is glad for this, as well as, revived once again. As I wrote, just today, my prayer for the calloused heart. ” a calloused heart needing touch, to revive its cracked depths. speak to
the wounds that for so long were tortured and torn like fabric from the
spirit within. mend, with words of tenderness, caressing the layers,
energizing the senses, now in seclusion. bring about, with strength,
like that of steel, the power of deliverance. may the heart be
translucent to the soul. ” http://mlhatcher.blogspot.com/ Thank you, once again for giving us a place to come share and take in lessons for thought.
I love that, ML. It reminds me why Paul in the New Testament calls us to have circumcised hearts, to keep it from being hardened by our flesh.
I love your prayer to the calloused soul!
I became a writer because my 13-year old son told me to “settle down”. In seven years of school he had attended 15 different schools! So, at the age of 42 I picked up the pen. I could see that film production companies needed short scripts for corporate videos, so I banged on their doors. Some of these people knew me from my days as a cameraman. For practice, I entered fiction competitions, any competition, wrote letters to the editor, anything. Now, here’s the thing I want to mention… when I went banging on those doors, I often heard this: “PJ! We were just thinking of you.” (Not) “We were just going to call you.” (No way.) Showing up at their door was imperative. Out of sight is out of mind. Was I doing this out of passion? Well, I love wordsmithing. But here’s the real motivator: I had to pay the RENT!
Thanks for sharing your story, PJ. That encourages me.
Have to be a pitchman before you can write, huh? Wouldn’t it be so much easier if great writers could get discovered in trailer parks like actresses and models used to?
Settling down and paying the rent are good reasons! Your stories are so fascinating it would be a shame if you weren’t a writer.
YEA Plumjoppa – you know what for!!!
This person I know, we’ll call him Rob, wants to write. He writes letters to the editor of the local newspaper. He writes inspirational blurbs for his church newsletter. He has a stack of stories and a few finished novels in his closet. He even self-published eleven volumes of poetry. And you know what? It’ll never sell. It stinks. I read it and it reeks to high heaven. He sends out something each day, and after a while, the rejection slips come in, one even saying “NO”, which hurt him deeply. He is passionate about writing. He belongs to three writers groups and is practically booed by the members, most of whom are published, some in prestigious magazines. But he just keeps writing garbage and toting it about to his meetings, hoping to hear a kind word, a word that says he’s done well. Well, that’s not going to happen in his lifetime, or anyone else’s. This guy stinks. “Stick to your day job,” I tell Rob who hunches over and clutches his brilliant (to him) manuscripts to his chest and walks away. I hate to hurt the guy, but I write too. My stuff isn’t star quality, but compared to his, I could be next in line for a Pulitizer. No kidding. So Rob gets up every morning and goes to work at the loan company — he’s in the accounting department — and does what managers do, stopping at lunch to write more stories about accountants who strike it rich and rich men with so many women they have to have a manager to keep the women and dates straight. And buy gifts and keep track of their birthdays while these guys just keep making more money and acquiring more women. And Rob has no social life. He chalks it up to his writing career. I feel sorry for the poor slob. Really, just a little.
Jamie,
I suppose there are people like this in every area of the arts; people who love to paint, sing, dance, act or write, but in reality are just plain terrible. As someone who leads music in the church, I’ve had my share of William Hungs who wanted to sing solos, whose moms told them they were wonderful and I was the one who had to tell them the truth. But hopefully I was able to do so without going all Simon Cowell on them.
I appreciate anyone who can deliver the bad news tactfully. Rob is not real, so the I is not me. Whew. I am no Simon Cowell, altho’ more times than not, I wish I were. . . . calling it assertive not rude.
How sad. Is that a true story? It’s well written. I feel sorry for him too!
It’s not true, but I knew a guy in college who was something like that, but it’s not that person. I feel sorry for him — but once I started writing, it started to flow.
I really like the way this sounds like a true story. Some of the details. Church bulletins & letters to the editor. The specifics of his day job and the topics of his story. Nicely done.
I thought this was really well done. I love that it reads like a story, not just an essay on the writing theory of “10 years or bust.”
I think it is pretty cool how so real this sounds. Isn’t that what writers, even those who write about frogs with wings and princesses who join the army, want? For readers to say, hmmm, yeah, I can see this happening. 🙂
I liked your style. 🙂
Hmm. Well, maybe Steve Jobs didn’t follow his passion, but I don’t think that means that the rest of us shouldn’t.
I fell into nursing by accident. Turns out I’m quite good at it. Who knew? It’s not my passion, but I enjoy it fairly well, and for 30 hours a week I earn almost as much as my
husband, who works as a manager in a factory that makes ready meals.
It is writing, though, that lights my fire, that makes my heart beat faster, that lets my soul SING.
I’m a busy lady – as well as nursing, I’ve got a family to run, pets to take care of and (very fortunately) a network of much needed, much loved friends who all support each other through life’s trials and tribulations on a daily basis. So I have to resort to writing in the cracks, the occasional pauses and the odd moments of quiet that I get.
And yes, I may not become successful with it, but one thing is for sure, if I DON’T give it a go, I definitely WON’T be successful at it.
Not everyone who joins the race will win; not every actor to goes to the audition will get the part; not everyone who buys a lottery ticket will become a millionaire, but SOMEONE will. You have to be in it to win it.
So I am not giving up.
To my fellow writers – “May the odds be ever in your favour”, and, to quote Ricky Gervais “Have a go, and don’t let anyone tell you, you can’t.”.
Hmmm, may the odds be ever in our favor… right before we all brutalize each other honest feedback that kills the illusion of “look at me, I’m such a great writer.” Actually, I’d rather be told,
“Your writing sucks and here is why…” than “this is great stuff” because at least i get one person’s opinion on how it might suck less. I’m scared to give feedback like that thought, because I really want “writer friends” because I have too many FB friends who don’t know the difference between your and you’re and they make me crazy.
Anyway, I love your gotta at least go for it attitude. I doubt very few published authors got there without that. Not that desire is all it takes, but I think it at least takes that.
ps: You are blessed to have such a great network of friends.
Thanks Wendy, and yes i am (fortunate to have a great network of friends. A couple of them live close by, but the rest live abroad – thank heavens for the internet!).
As for critisism, I understand what you are saying. I’ve shown my writing to my close girl friends and they all tell me it’s wonderful – but they love me, so they would say that, wouldn’t they? Part of the reason I was looking for somewhere like this was to get some practitcal, non-biased feedback on my writing. I think sometimes it’s about choosing the right words to say – instead of ‘this sucks’, we could say ‘I really liked this bit, but maybe you need to explain that bit better, because it doesn’t read quite right’ – or something similar.
Maybe we could make a deal to be gently honest with each other about our writing? I really really REALLY want to improve my writing (starting with grammar, haha).
Your way of phrasing “gently honest” doesn’t suck. As for making a deal about feedback… deal me in. 🙂
OK, I love the desire for honesty I’m hearing from both of you – I’d love to join you guys. Sometimes my writing feels like it’s got spinach in it’s teeth, and everyone’s too afraid to tell me! I give you FULL PERMISSION to say it!! 😉 And I’ll be as ‘gently honest’ as I can with your work – although the fact that I just started writing seriously for the last 2 years after a long break, and that I get excited very easily about good stuff must be kept in mind! 😉
In there with you all. Belive in the gentle critique, sometimes I find it hard to carry out, ’cause I can’t put a finger on something specific, but I do try…
Same to be honest. I always say if you read it tell me something I can fix, though people never do they always say this is great and sort of want to whack them and say “I just want to fix something!” No they seem to enjoy treading over my feelings. Its actually frustrating when i don’t get constructive criticism.
Writing in the cracks, I get that and love the image, if not the reality. I agree showing up is where it begins, we can’t win if we don’t run.
Thanks Beck!
Well…I wrote my first book when I was 10 and now I’m 19…guess I’m almost there. 🙂 The depressing thing is I’ve only been serious about it for three years. Oh well, I love to write enough that I’ll keep doing it even if I don’t make a dime off it.
A day in the life
The phone is ringing. Again. I
think that’s the fifth time since I got up at ten. And who is it this time? I
bet I can guess before the answering machine picks up. Ah, my mother-in-law. I
swear, she breaks things on purpose as an excuse to call and find out what we’re
“up to” today. I’m right. There she is, TV blaring in the background. It doesn’t
go over well when I bring it up, but my husband’s family is addicted to
entertainment. Not a day goes by without the TV on in that house. I think there’s
a series that just started about the world after some apocalyptic blackout. I
wonder if they’d survive?
Why am
I thinking about this? I should be writing. I’m going to unplug the phone. No
doubt, there will be a thousand panicked calls later when I plug it back in,
but it’s worth it for some peace and quiet. There. What is that? There’s a
truck idling outside. Oh, lovely, just wonderful. They’ve decided that the day
I’ve put aside for some serious writing is the day they are fixing my road. Why?
Really, Why?
Okay,
well, let’s see if I can get started and just ignore it. Where’s my Chicago
Manual? In my laptop bag? Nope. Bookcase? No, maybe downstairs on the table.
No. Oh, crap. Here’s the mail. I forgot to pay that bill. If I mail it, it won’t
get there in time, I wonder-Yes! They do have an online option. Ok, where’s my
account number? I think I already have a password somewhere. Where did I put
that?
Seriously?
Why isn’t my laptop turning on? Is this what they call the “blue screen of
death?” I have to call my brother. Where’s the dial tone? Oh, my God, what’s
wrong with the phone-Oh, yeah, plug it in. Okay, where is his number? Oh, no.
Hello? Yes, Susan, I’m here. No,
there’s nothing wrong with the phone. No, he’s at work, like every week day.
What are we “up to?” Well, I’m trying to get some writing done-Yes, on my “book.”
No, I don’t have a publisher, yet. No, I don’t know how to fix your thermostat.
Mmm hmm. Ok. Right. Yes. Right. Ok. I’ll have him call the moment he gets home.
Yes. You, too. Thank you. Yes. Yes. Yes. Bye now. Yes. Bye.
Well, that’s out of the way. Okay,
Daren’s number. Hi, Daren. Listen, real quick. My computer just-No. Did I what?
I’ll try that. Ok, thanks. Hey-
So, my brother hangs up on me, but
my mother-in-law won’t let me hang up. Charming family. Okay, re-freaking-boot.
Thank goodness. Bank of America. Payment Options. Good. Good. Forgot Password.
Email. Got it.
Alright! It only took a half hour
to get that all set up and then finally pay. While I’m here, I’ll just read the
news. Might inspire me, right? Wow. The world’s going to Hell in a handbasket.
I have to send this article on to Julie. What’s this? The passwords on my LinkedIn
site have been compromised? Okay, I guess I’ll change it. And update my resume
while I’m at it. And add a picture, maybe. No, where was that article about
women who attach their picture not getting hired? I swear I saw that…
Wow,
construction. It sounds like they are testing artillery out there. Maybe
headphones will help. Someone told me once that white noise helps people
concentrate. Wait, that was a fifteen-year-old who wanted to listen to his iPod
in class, so maybe I shouldn’t take his advice. Earplugs, that’s what I need. I
think I have some in the drawer in the bathroom, left over from my flight to
Europe. There they are! Finally, one thing went right today.
Hmm,
speaking of Europe. Maybe a glass of wine would help, too. I’ve heard that workers
in Europe are much more productive in a shorter work day because they take time
for a leisurely lunch and a glass of wine. Let’s see, red or white? I think I’ve
read that a glass of red wine a day is good for your heart. Oh, my God,
heartworm! I forgot to pick up the dog’s meds. What time is the pharmacy open
until? Six? Maybe I can make it if I really haul. Dammit. No writing today.
You made me laugh! It’s kind of like “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie” for writers. My favorite part is when you forgot that you unplugged the phone.
HILARIOUS!!!!
Very fun to read! I can so relate. One distraction leads to another and time is gone-poof!
I think about 50% of the people out there don’t know what their passion is. It’s probably higher maybe even 70-80%. I think following your passion is to put it too mildly. I say LIVE your passion. There is a BIG difference.
I’ve read Outliers and obviously there are somethings out of our control that are needed to be really successful. But I’ll tell you this; if you LIVE your passion, you will at bare minimum make a difference because you will be forced to improve. So what if you don’t get to be a full time writer or not. “William Faulkner had failed at a number of menial jobs, including a stint in 1930 on the late shift at a power plant.” (from this post here http://tomreeder.wordpress.com/2010/04/03/day-jobs-of-the-famous/)Money alone is not the point. The point is to use your gifts to make a difference.
Sounds like the point is to FOLLOW your passion, not FLIT after it cause it might be cool.
When I look at all the published authors out there, I used to think, they are all better writers than me. But as I read, I’m not convinced that is true. What they did that put their book on a shelf and not mine (so far) is try. Submit. Do it.
Sure, there are lots of people who try to get published and fail. But those who fail to try have no shot at all.
Like your attitude.
I find this inspiring: “if you LIVE your passion, you will at bare minimum make a difference
because you will be forced to improve. So what if you don’t get to be a
full time writer or not. ”
It is what you do with what you have, not how much time you get. We all have twenty-four in a day. And, too, we have to consider if we are making our passion for writing a priority in that time we have.
Excellent point, Jim. It’s like the difference between ‘try’ and ‘do’ isn’t it 🙂
I have succeeded at many occupations. None of which, can I say as a whole, did I have passion. I did have passion about individual elements or tasks which made up those occupations. However, no, I still do not know what I want to be when I grow up. “So what exactly is passion?”, I ask myself. It is defined as “strong and barely controllable emotion”. Bu that definition, I am passionate about writing. Meaning it eats at me and I have to do it constantly, but I am not “good at it”. Admittedly, I haven’t practiced it purposefully for any length of time. And since I have to eat, pay the bills, and beyond that, produce money to take care of others, necessity dictates that my time be spent doing that which allows me to meet and exceed those needs. But still the immense “desire” that I can only liken to a drug addict’s insatiable compulsion for a “fix” grabs me, shakes me, chokes my thought processes till I just have to write in order to obtain relief.
I think it was best said by Georgia O’Keeffe, “Whether you succeed or not is irrelevant, there is no such thing. Making your unknown, known, is the important thing.”
It’s a sad day when you realize: just because I want something, doesn’t mean I’m going to get it. It sounds almost childish.
The practice today is kind of funny. I was working on my weekly short story about a struggling writer this morning. So I may as well post what I have so far.
Martin couldn’t create.
The blank Word document sat patiently. Every couple of minutes, he’d rest his fingers on the keyboard. Then he’d take them off.
_If I don’t think of something soon, the day will end. If the day ends without me writing anything, I’ll be letting myself down. If I let myself down it means I’m a terrible writer. I’m a terrible writer._
Still, nothing.
Martin had tried all the tricks. A thousand blogs had a million tips on breaking writer’s block. None worked. He’d read his favorite passages from other books, looked at concept art, read writing prompts, negotiated with the muse; it all amounted to nothing.
The world watched him from somewhere, he was sure. They could see through the floorboards and ceiling tiles. They crept outside his window and hid in his air vents. Everyone ever, had forgone their own problems, and focused their attention on the blank Word document, and the pathetic man who was supposed to put something there.
He considered the usual distractios. Netflix, coffee, another meal, reading, masturbation. Nothing appealed.
Martin created. It’s what he was supposed to do. Martin wasn’t particuarly smart, or rich, or charming, or good-looking. But he could create. When he created, the world paid attention.
Only now, Martin couldn’t create.
****
And that’s what I’ve got so far.
So the trick might be, how does he start writing again, besides the obvious, “He started writing again.” If that makes sense. I am curious how you will make this story interesting in getting a writer over writer’s block without making it sound easy.
Do you outline your stories beforehand or do you just write and see where it will lead you?
Zoe, thanks!
And Casey, generally, I come up with something like a scene or snippet of dialogue in my head. When that happens, I generally just write whatever comes to mind. It’s only after I’ve exhausted that initial momentumn that I go back and figure out what’s going on. So I guess it’s a combination of both.
I love the paragraph on the world watching him – you hit that neurotic cord so well!!!
What a great post! Thanks. It reminds me of a great quote by Richard Bach. “A professional writer is an amateur who didn’t quit.”
I love that, Leti. Thanks. 🙂
Practice requires passion. This article contradicts itself. It tries to reason that passion is not want makes someone a writer, it’s the market and practice, lots of practice. It tells us that we often stumble into our jobs, and then it tells us it takes years of writing to become a writer. Is writing for ten years without any recognition sound at all like the stumbling that found Steve Jobs his career? No. To do anything for ten years before being recognized requires one to love the thing that they are doing. That’s passion. Sure, you need readers and interesting, unique writing to make it, that’s obvious. But, writing is a craft that must be honed, and how can one ever spend years practicing, scrutinizing their work, being scrutinized by others, and pushing themselves, without being passionate about writing in the first place? You might stumble upon the idea of writing, but you gotta trek through the abyss of trial and error to even think about the slight possibility of success and only passion will keep you going.
Maybe. But which came first, the passion or the practice? Newport argues the practice, and I tend to agree with him.
And really, the passion I’m talking about and Newport’s talking about is the fickle kind of passion, the kind that’s looking for a dream job when there isn’t such thing, the kind that’s causing all my fellow 20-somethings to quit their job every six months. The wish upon a star and follow your dream passion.
If you’re going to write for ten years, to write hard with no breaks, to wrestle through writer’s block even when it hurts, to join a critique group to give you feedback and then hire a coach because that wasn’t enough, to not just write but to really pursue it, then you’re not just passionate, you’re stubborn and kind of stupid. Because that kind of passion isn’t fun and it’s certainly not easy. That kind of passion, which is the passion you seem to be talking about, is what this blog is all about. If we’re talking about that kind of passion, then you’re right, this post contradicts itself.
We’re not talking about that kind of passion though.
Well, I’m happy I’m here then. Thanks for the thought-provoking article.
🙂
I journaled before I began trying to write fiction. So I have years of the wrong kind of writing under my belt. I’m a stay-at-home mom who homeschools, and I wanted to do something that didn’t entail education or children, and yet I had to be able to stay at home with the kidlets. So I’m writing stories now, which means that I no longer sleep–and I must admit that I occasionally practice the parenting technique of benign neglect: “Mommy is writing right now. Unless you bleed more than a cup, please leave me alone for one hour.:
Really, it was only 17 minutes, the time it took for the dinner timer to go off.
I don’t why I came here. The work is hard, the language is foreign, no matter how much they say English is like German. On days like this I am sure I made a mistake. I did want to be in this band. I love the music. I learned to play it because when I heard it, it made something inside of me move. And when there was an opening for a rhythm guitarist, well, lucky me. I made the audition, and they chose me. Now here I am, struggling to learn the rest of the music. Every time I fumble a chord Zane looks at me with an expression that makes me think that he thinks he messed up when they signed me on.
My fingers are bloody from the hours I’ve put in. And they were tough fingers to begin with. I’m not new to this business. I’m new to this band, but I’m not sure that Zane sees the difference. I have more than thirty pieces to learn in less than six months. Would he be sweating it, too? No slack from him. Just that look, and then muttering in German that he thinks I can’t understand yet.
Except I can do this. I just wish I could block him out and ignore him. I’ll turn the amp up the next time he looks in my direction. I don’t drop the rhythm. I don’t stop the whole song because I messed up. If I can hit a sour chord and everyone else keeps playing, so can he. We all started out as beginners. And he did, too.
I’ll keep doing this. I won’t give up. I wanted in this band and I did what I had to do to get in, and I was the best of them all. That means that I don’t suck, despite the misgivings whispering that he might think otherwise. And he must know that I am capable since he had his say when they accepted me into their band. I wouldn’t be here if they all hadn‘t agreed. I should remember that when he gives me his tight smile that wants to throttle me and tell me what a lot of lazy asses Americans are. I’ll learn German and I’ll write the music one day, as well.
In the meantime–I’m tired and I want to call it a night.
This is a great:
I occasionally practice the parenting technique of benign neglect: “Mommy is writing right now. Unless you bleed more than a cup, please leave me alone for one hour.
Just one question… how do you get them to bleed into a measuring cup? Cause I have to try this one.
Maybe I should translate that into “if you make a mess on the floor that I have to clean up.” But every injury requires a band-aid around here. 🙂
When Lindsay was in third grade her classmates voted her
most likely to be a writer. This really
pissed Lindsay off (although at 8 years old she hadn’t yet learned the term “pissed
off”, but she knew how to feel it). She
was gunning for most likely to be an actress. But that title went to Kerry Mason, because
Kerry was good at kickball, had a Lite-Brite smile, and didn’t have frizzy hair
that looked like it attacked her head like Lindsay did.
“We need to give Lindsay an outlet for creative expression,” Lindsay’s
teacher, Mrs. Seymour, told her parents when Lindsay tested off the charts in
writing and reading comprehension. “What
does she like to do?”
“She makes up plays and acts them out at home with her
sisters and brothers,”said her mom.
So Mrs. Seymour told Lindsay to write a play for her
class. Lindsay loved this idea and set
out to write a Christmas play.
This was the 1970s when Santa was still invited to school,
even though he didn’t visit every students’ home. For them, a token song about a dreidel was
tacked onto the chorus’ Christmas pageant to make everything even.
Lindsay’s play was about a group of animals afraid Santa
wouldn’t come to them because they were animals, lived in homes without
chimneys and didn’t know how to write “Dear Santa” letters. The lead character was a deer and Lindsay
automatically cast herself in the part.
“That’s not really fair to give yourself the best part,”
Mrs. Seymour told Lindsay. “Don’t you
agree?”
No. Lindsay did not
agree. Why else was she writing this
dumb thing if she couldn’t be the deer?
Kerry got the part of the deer, and Lindsay got the part of
a chipmunk that had two lines, including the one word sentence, “Nuts!”
As Lindsay grew older she continued to try out for every
play, but she stopped writing them.
Instead, she wrote poems about rag dolls who wished they were china
dolls and entries in her creative writing class journal about her crush on the
boy who sat next to her, and how the girl three rows over made fun of her
hair.
One day, Mr. Hoover, the creative writing teacher, collected
up the students journals and read random pages aloud to the class. He kept them anonymous, but when Mr. Hoover
read about a girl who wanted to pluck out all her frizzies but was afraid of
being bald, all the students knew who he was talking about.
Lindsay began to hate writing after that. Or at least sharing what she wrote with
anyone. She completely plagiarized her twelfth
grade English paper from a girl in Honors Literature. The same paper about Lewis Carroll that had
earned the Honors Lit student an ‘A’, earned Lindsay a B-.
In college, Lindsay majored in Psychology to earn As, and
minored in Communications because maybe if she couldn’t be an actress, she
could be on TV as a journalist. She
auditioned for the campus TV station and didn’t get a call back. She blamed her hair, again.
By the time she graduated, Lindsay had long since given up
her third grade dream of TV stardom. She
didn’t start a career, but she did finally find a job by November. She wore a red mini-dress and reindeer
antlers snapping photos of little kids posing with Santa Claus. Lindsay finally had her part as the deer, but
the script was far from how she’d envisioned it.
A little girl with banshee hair sat on Santa’s knee. With a face full of dreams and a head topped with
fluff, she reminded Lindsay of her third-grade self. The one most likely to be a writer.
Twenty years later, she wrote about that moment, and proved
her third grade classmates right.
I think you caught exactly how the pleasure of writing can be stamped out of you, by school assignments especially. It gets downright discouraging after a while, and all the time you’re being told what a great writer you’d make.
I think you could continue expanding on this, about the struggle it takes to be a writer in the present with all the baggage of the past coming along with you. But then again, the past sure does make great material.
In honoring my commitment to be ”gently honest” – well really there is nothing sucky about this! Except that it is kind of sad, though that is subjective and nothing to do with your writing. I liked ‘face full of dreams and a head topped with fluff’ and I liked “Lindsey finally had her part as the deer, but the script was far from how she’d envisioned it”. And I don’t like Mr Hoover.
I enjoy the candid tone of this, spot on here. I loved the first paragraph, but think that the last line of it could end with frizzy hair. You really see both the spunk – no, I don’t think that playing myself as the lead is unreasonable!! – and frustration of Lindsay – ‘rag dolls who wished they were china dolls’, great line. I think the paragraphs starting with ‘one day’ to ‘in college’ could have been tightened. She didn’t get a career but got a job – great word choice there. I love the full circle of this -especially the irony of her finally getting the reindeer part!! ‘a little girl with banshee hair’… ‘face full of dreams and a head topped with fluff’ – great lines. Like I said, my main thing would be to prune some of the paragraphs, but this is a great story. (that being said, are we critting according to 15 mins, or just regular critting, because that makes a difference too – for a 15 min story I wouldn’t have much to say cause that’s great!) Is this more the feel of crit you’re after?
You are a much better ‘critter’ (hehe) than me Zoe – thought to be fair I did reply to Wendy at 5am towards the end of a busy night shift. But THIS is the kind of ‘crit’ that I would like please!
Is it “what doesn’t kill us makes us better?” or “bitter” ?
I mean really, any one single focused passionate pursuit can make a life worth living … I have always simultaneously been involved in the business of life and the passion of life. The goal is to blend the line between the two.
My passions have never filled my needs for living numerically the way business has … I have honestly never been good enough an artist to pay a mortgage, send kids to school, have fun weekends and two weeks in the summer away from the business side of life … but I am passionate about writing. I am a writer in the same way I am a photographer, a painter, a poet, and a golfer … lol! I never had to become any of those things — I just am … I decree this for myself.
And you can too …
Great post Joe, I agree completely …
Mmm… well said, Robert. Thanks. 🙂
Plink, plink, plink, plink, plunk, tappity tap. Fingers flash, banging against the keyboard. Words are uncooperative today. They refuse to line up like soldiers and march. Some days the fire flashes, a white hot heat from the inside. Other days, like today, the fire sputters and spits, dwindling to a mere flicker guttering in the wind of reality.
“I am a writer, I am a writer.” A chant to convict and compel. “Writers write.” When the words pour out sweet as oozing honey on the page it’s a joy to write. It’s easy to believe. And when the words have to be whipped and coerced, the mind, body and soul intent on rebellion, that’s when discipline comes like the love of a dutiful mother to bring order.
I am a writer. I AM a writer. I am a WRITER. Writers write. Writers write words. Writers think thoughts. Writers capture beauty. Writers change the world. I am a writer. (Tap, tap, tap. Baaaaaaaackspace.) Writing and seeing and loving and believing. That a black crayon day, is meant to be a turned upside-down day in a rainbow kind of way, in love. Because I am a writer with my sword clasped hand, slashing and clanging a ringing call, injustice, no more. Beating back in a fury the no money days and what’s the meaning of it all, but I promise to show up and
write,
write,
write.
I am a writer, I am a writer, and a writer writes words.
Oh, you ARE a writer, Beck, this is awesome!! What a beautifully crafted piece of writing!
There’s so much passion in this, Beck. I love the ‘unco-operative words’ that ‘refuse to line up like soldiers and march’!
Yeah, you are, Beck. My sword clasped hand salutes yours!
Ready.
Morning walk, yes. Mind breezed out, yes. Oats and orange juice, yes.
Sue walked towards the computer and sat down, smiling widely. Perhaps her muse would notice all the make-up she’d worn this morning and show up. Unlike yesterday. Sue was beginning to think that her muse was offended by tardy appearances, especially fluffy hair.
Sue sat down in front of the cavernous white page. Already she felt her heart beat faster. White Page struck the fight or flight instinct in her. Today, she batted her eyelashes and smiled back at it.
‘You’re not going to make me run today, sweetheart,’ she said, after sipping her coffee. ‘I’m going to mess up all your perfect whiteness.’
The white screen looked back at her, nonplussed. Sue turned her nose up and with her middle finger, switched off the monitor.
‘So there!’
Sue liked a black screen. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard as her mind nagged her that it really WAS time to look what Joythebaker had made last night, and didn’t she need to check those updates from Groupon?
‘No.’ she said out loud as she banged her fingers on the keyboard.
And she was off. Out to write the most pathetic sentences, words that didn’t string together perfectly, ideas that could be kicked over by a child. She wrote about washing lines spinning in wind, and pink flamingos sailing to Africa in a lime-green yacht and how furiously bulls would journal if they had a chance. She wrote.
And then it happened. She always felt it, she always knew the feel of her muse. She couldn’t smell her – although the scent of red dust made her fingers itch with unwritten stories – she couldn’t see her perched on her shoulder with a feather boa and cigarette sticking out of her mouth but she felt her.
She knew her muse was there when she wasn’t afraid of the words anymore.
Sue switched on the white screen.
Oh so THAT is how we summon the muse! Haha, I wondered. I LOVED the paragraph about the washing lines and the pink flamingos. The only thing I would like is a little bit more after she switched the screen on – how did she write once her muse arrived?
Thanks Kate! And definitely keen to crit and be critted! 😉 You’re right, that would have finished it off – if only my muse had given more help!! I’ll definitely give you as much feedback as I can, but like I said, I’m quite a newbie. Yay, this is exciting!!
I’m a newbie too Zoe – we can learn together.
Ideas that could be kicked over by a child. Sweeeet metaphor, Zoe!
The keyboard is black. Its little white letters wait for me. They hold their breath for days. They let in a sharp short breath when I move close, but it gets no relief. My hands are magnetic. And the dark keys are bipolar. We fall in love, tremble and weep together. Each of us clutching onto a thread of an idea. Watching as it leads us into new worlds. Suns rise and fall and we wake entangled. Then without a gentle whisper it pushes me away. My hands falter, the thread quavers and the shadows creep closer. I try. I press down violently on those faces. The more I push the more it pushes away. So our symphony ends. The black keys wait. I wait in return.
LOVE this!!!
We fall in love, tremble and weep together…well said.
This is how I want to learn to write. You must be years ahead of me. This was beautiful.
As do I.
Wow!
Very nice 🙂 Somber but very eloquent 🙂
I love the feeling and how you develop the relationship
Oh my goodness. This was good advice. Thank you.
Heady thoughts; all of them today,
Ideas dangling, out-of-reach
No fingering of keys translating
Abstracts to actual.
Yesterday, too, intentions good,
But subjects were slippery,
Oiled by distraction, unduly dullness,
Perhaps tomorrow.
Failure breeds fear, cold feet,
Illusions are all I have,
Self-doubt steals confidence
If- onlys victimize.
Practice, I’m told,
But Practice gets old.
When Passion can’t, Practice can?
Faith pushes forward.
It’s good to have it reinforced that writing for a living doesn’t come easy. My new blog, nojunglebookvulture.blogspot.co.uk is all about striving for what you want and taking any opportunity you can along the way.
To me, writing is like dancing, I took classes in dance for years, but it wasn’t until a certain critical mass was reached that I suddenly began to get it. After that, each lesson came more easily. Even so, every single time I went out to dance in public, I was still wracked with nerves. That, let me tell you, didn’t go away.
Writing has been a similar process. For years I’ve studied, written poorly, and studied, and written some more. Yet, it’s only now, that I’m seeing the wrinkles appear and deepen, that I start to feel I’m getting a grip on this challenge. It’s a beautiful aging process, me and my writing, hand-in-hand. I’ll never regret all the years of striving to improve. I’m so glad I never gave up. I’m so deeply grateful that my writing and I are still together, and our relationship is only growing stronger. Publication smublication I say! Too bad if I never hit the big time. I’ve enjoyed every minute, so far, and intend to continue doing so until my dying day. By that point of course, my writing shall be sheer genius!
How do you get those ten years without passion though, Joe?
Good question, Marla. How ARE you going to do it, because there will be days when you’re not passionate, when you hate writing, when all you want to do is quit. There will be days of confusion, where it seems like everyone hates your work, or worse, they don’t know it even exists, and you wonder whether you have what it takes to be a writer. Sure, there will be days full of passion, just like marriage has passionate moments. But mostly it’s a daily choice. Mostly it’s about character, not passion. Are you going to honor your passion even when you’re not feeling passionate? To me, that’s a more important question.
We are studying Chekov, the story where there’s a boot that’s on
the floor and the top of it is folded over.
We’ve been talking about this damn boot for three days in Dr. Whiteside’s
class and I think the same thing I thought from the start. Maybe the boot is just a boot. Maybe it’s not symbolic of despair or failure
or mortality or impotence – those are the theories that have been discussed so
far.
It’s my biggest problem here, my inability dip inside the head
of dead writers and know what they were thinking. That and the guy beside me who’s high, I know
he is, and every day he wears a black T-shirt with a scrap of paper he’s
safety-pinned onto it that reads “Coldplay,” and he stares at me, at least I
think he does, behind his dirty sunglasses.
I’d like to know why I’m in a composition class and haven’t
written a word yet. We all had to buy
Dr. Whiteside’s book “The Dead Have Feathers,” about his childhood on the a
chicken farm, and we read it aloud in class on Thursdays and Dr. Whiteside
cries sometimes. We read but we don’t
ever write.
Today, there’s a reporter from the local TV station, and he’s
telling us about the real world. He’s
reported all the big events in the state, tornadoes, government corruption,
that time when Paris Hilton made a reality show down on a farm.
He came here from L.A., which I guess is the same as hitting the
lottery in TV news, but he got too old, too paunchy, and they let him go.
The perky girl in front of me asks the reporter to explain the
differences between a news station in Arkansas and California, and he stops for
a second, and then says.
“Same circus, different clowns.”
And the perky girl laughs, but I don’t know why. Another mystery I can’t unfold.
But then the reporter starts talking about the fourth estate and
the flag and Freedom of Information Act, and I’m starting to like it. He’s the kind of tall you see at basketball
games, and his eyes are blue.
This is why he got into the business he says. He wanted to make a difference. He hoped to uncover some darkness that we’d
all be better off seeing.
“Now,” he says, “I sit at council meetings and listen to old
people complain about car radios being turned up too loud.”
He tugs at his collar, looking uncomfortable, like when you walk
into a party full of people you don’t know.
He says. “If I could start over, if I were your age, I’d do something
else. In the news meetings, this idiot
they hired to run the place asks us who has sexy news.” He shakes his head, his
hands gripping the podium.
“Sexy news. You know what
that means? No,” he says, “you don’t. It
means stories where you can say ‘pool of blood’. It means knocking on the doors of parents who
just lost a kid in a car wreck and demanding they talk. It means reporting that the alderman from
Ward 3 wears his wife’s panties under his wool suit.
“There’s no more integrity.
It’s all info-tainment, and ‘perception is truth’ and Facebook likes and
trending. ‘You aren’t trending well with the 24-52 white females,’ my boss said
to me this morning. What the…,” he
says. “No one cares that the bridges in
this state are in such bad shape, you’re taking your life in your own hands
when you cross them.
“Or that eighty-five percent of our nursing homes are in
violation of at least three health codes. No one,” he says, “gives a damn.”
The class has gone quiet. The guy beside me has taken off his
sunglasses. The perky girl looks like she might cry.
“So, what I’m saying,” he says, “is this. If you want to make a
difference, write fiction. I’m not
kidding. Write some damn fiction that
makes you feel good about the world you live in, because kids, the world
outside your pretty little campus is freaking mess. And I’m not going to fix
it, and your parents are too worried about whether you’ll ever leave home to
care, and the fat cats like Dr. Whiteside here are living off the government’s
teat, so good luck there.”
Dr. Whiteside is standing now.
He’d been autographing a copy of “The Dead Have Feathers” and he was
about to hand it over. He stopped, his
face gone red.
The reporter grabbed his notes that he hadn’t seemed to have
used once, and walked past us all, back into the real world.
I wondered what he’d tell his news director when he got back to
work. I wondered what he did at night, and if he wore boots that slumped
against themselves when he pulled them off and set them on his bare bedroom
floor. Because somehow I knew the floor would be bare.
I’m speechless. I loved it. Since we are writing about ourselves as struggling writers, in this portrayal are you the reporter depressed from a lifetime or writing reality? Or, are you the student desiring simply to write and hoping at some point it will all make sense? Or Dr Whiteside who wrote at least one book for therapeutic reasons? Please don’t tell me you are the unsuspecting “Coldplay” high guy? You masterfully drew me in. I enjoyed the read. Thank you.
Andrew, Well first, thank you. If I’m anybody in this story I’m the reporter. I worked in TV news for a long time and watched it get worse and worse. But I was also the student once upon a time, hoping to make a difference. The Coldplay guy, well, he hated everything I wrote. Don’t know what happened to him.
This is an amazing read. I was skeptical at first but the title got me. My husband is one of the few ‘lucky ones’ to love what he does (tennis pro). I can assure you, as a high school tennis player he never envisioned it becoming his career. He has shown me first hand that if you have a sincere passion for what you do, and can help others in the process, you can lead a beautiful and fulfilling life. Although his passion started out as a talent, he is wise enough to treat it as a professional trade and is always working to improve his teaching mechanisms. That is my favorite reminder in your writing. Even if you are good at something and it is your passion you should always try to learn and grow. Happy to have found you!
Thank you, I needed to read this. I’m frustrated with my ‘gap’ after just 2 years, so this is music to me.
Really interesting post. I feel like what we can take away more from this is don’t follow your passion blindly. Develop your skills and experiences, and stay open minded to find a fulfilling path. If you look at Job’s story.
Inspired my own post, though. Thanks! http://www.amandalewan.com/ignoring-advice-the-passionate-wanderings-of-steve-jobs/
Does ten years count any time or do you have to have ten years of some kind of “real” life experience, or whatever life experience counts for something, on top of ten years of writing? This questions mostly pertains to younger writers.
‘Rejected’
She adds the latest letter onto an ever-growing pile of rejection letters.
She sighs, collapses onto her bed and looks up at the ceiling, doubts rolling around her mind.
“Why do I bother?”
“I’m not good enough.”
“Why would anyone want to publish me, anyway?”
“I should just give up.”
They are the same sort of things her family told her.
Her dream has always been to be a writer. She had always told herself that she would prove them wrong, however, in these moments, she doubts her ambitions. But somehow she always manages to do one thing. She gets up.
As she thinks about this, she realises that she has to continue to do so. She has to get up. She has to improve. She’ll prove her family wrong, just as she always said she will.
She gets off her bed and opens up a document on her computer. She calls it ‘Rejected’.
Ahhhh. So I’m not alone. Write what you feel. But make it “dynamic”. Make it “passionate”. I doubt you felt dynamic or passionate when you wrote your piece called “Rejected”. You felt “rejected”. Or, you may have felt angered at someone who dared to reject you. Anger channeled positively is a good motivator, a good way to ignite or reignite passion. So I have to ask. Were you passionate about your piece “Rejected”. Were you able to master the fine art of being dynamics and passion throughout this piece?
At first I was nervous about reading this post. As you stated, this goes against what many people are saying about becoming a writer/following any dream. I thought everything was about passion. Having a passion leads to persistance. Having passion leads to love and cherishing acts. Having passion leads to happiness. Now I supposed that it’s a romanticized view of life. Things don’t flow because of happiness. Thank you for this post. It put words to my writing path. I stopped a few years back when I lost passion and I start a few months ago because of a need to be good.
Ok, that is some paradigm-shifting, straight-shooting bit of information. Thank you! Getting that book, hoping they have it in Kindle form.
A desire to get the many thoughts and
feelings that swirl around in his head onto a piece of paper permeate
his very being, sometimes till he is about to explode. He stands in
one place and starts turning in circles like a child playing a game.
But in reality he is grasping at focus and direction not knowing
which way to turn, and so he doesn’t. He just keeps making circles
until finally he throws himself on the couch barely making it, as he
struggles to control his own dizziness. He whips a few desperate, but
reluctant words down on paper and shoves them at his publisher.
They’re not the best, but they do get published. Because they are
not the best, the effort is meaningless to him. But what choice does
he have? His own mind demands rest. Really? No, his own ambition
demands the best. So he writes another article.
One morning he struggled with his
issues of focus. He had to force himself to work at his day job, but
he was only half there. No. He was only less than half there. Any
other thing he could possibly do that would sidetrack him from his
day job, he did. Until the morning was over. Then he realized it
was that insatiable appetite for writing that was rearing what seemed
like it’s ugly head to once again interfere with his day. It was
there all along. It was there when he left his desk to get coffee.
It was there when he allowed the phone to be an intrusion. It was
there in every single act that sidetracked him from doing his day
job. The job that made him money. Writing wasn’t making him money.
He was an awful writer. Yet it was there. “Is this what they call
passion?”, he wondered. “If so, then surely it is a nagging
passion.” Finally he gave in. He wrote another article.
“You are a Can-Do Will-Do
Person…..Given Proper Motivation” was the title. He actually
wrote with renewed vigor and passion. “It’s
my best work!” he confidently thought. “I actually put myself into it. My
feelings. Yes each individual is unique. But we are all also the
same. Including our misgivings. My feelings of being a bad writer combined with my nagging need to write, combined and
translated into inability to focus and lack of motivation. So it
made perfect sense to write a self help article on lack of motivation
and tips on how to turn that around.” He felt so good about the
article, his passion during its writing and the dozens of people it
would help. Off to the publisher it went.
Next day reviews were out. His article
failed miserable. The publisher deemed it unfit to go live due to
poor grammar, sentence structure and misspellings. He went back in
and made a series of corrections. “Wow! Was I in such a hurry
that I didn’t proofread carefully enough? How can my English writing
skills be that bad? I’ve published other articles without such a
review.”
Then came another review. “It reads
like a blog…” “It isn’t “terribly dynamic…” “…the
layout is a mess.” “I found many odd
sentence structures and some spelling/grammar errors
…” “I sensed a lackadaisical tone throughout…” “…you
weren’t really ‘into’ it.”
“Are you kidding me?” He grouched
out loud though otherwise speechless. He could have given up, but he
didn’t. He got mad. Not mad at the reviews, mad at himself. Mad at
his incessantly nagging mind. Mad at the world. He used one of the
motivational techniques he wrote about in his article to lift himself
up. He resigned to admit that he didn’t know, what he didn’t know.
He set out to study, study, study, write, write, write. Become so
good they couldn’t ignore him. That is what led him to this site.
Do I dare to dream?….sigh… I love writing. It takes me away from the cruel and harsh world we live in.
‘Its not that easy’ i thought to myself. Surely I can not become a writer, Must do something more realistic, more dependable and so I can survive. As you read this, do you feel inclined to press that x in the top right hand corner of your screen. You could give up so easily or you could keep ‘writing’ because you love it,
because you want to show everyone you have potential, you want to show the world you can do it and you can succeed.
But how do we break into it? How do we reach for those seemingly unreachable dreams?
My mind full of ideas, full of words, full of questions I want answered.
I lean back in the hard wooden chair, pick up the hot coffee, take a sip……sigh…
Alt + F4.
“This is really hard. I have too many ideas and just even
putting that down in writing is proving harder than I thought. “ Sharon said.
“Maybe writing a novel is for other’s and not me.”
Sharon had just lost her job in March and being on the older
side of life was afraid that if she didn’t use the available time wisely she
would fade out of life having to live on social security and move in with her
daughter.
She was afraid.
“I’ll write a fantasy novel, one that I would love to read!”
she decided and commenced to write. Well, she thought she would write but it was proving more and more difficult. She couldn’t figure out which
idea she wanted to use and worse it was a chore to sit down and type
something.
She discovered she had no passion to do this. All Sharon had at this point was desperation and fear.
Was this enough to write a novel that people would flock to read?
Sharon decided it was. She was getting so mad at herself for thinking that this was something she couldn’t do so she began scouring resources and reading about “How to Write a Novel.” She discovered writers sometimes use outlines so she began to create and outline.
She read that passion wasn’t just for those who do what they love. This writer wrote that passion isn’t the driving force for everyone.
Passion doesn’t have the final say in what we do with our time or lives.
Sharon decided, then and there, that passion wasn’t driving her train, determination was.
It began with a few words.
“This is really hard.”
This article is pointless. All it really says is “if you want people to enjoy your books, said books must be good.”
…no shit.
Alena let her fingers hover over her keyboard the monitor glowing with the story she had created. The words had flown together and seemed to combine together in an endless fashion creating pure perfection. Alena knew that after this she could make it but the fear of failure was always waiting, always lurking in the darkest corners of her mind. She had many brilliant stories with words that could break a readers heart, not that she had created them. Oh no what she had done was far more mesmerizing, you see there was a beauty in putting the words together especially when the outcome could be preserved and looked upon in later years. Alena could finish it but then again she could redo it like all the times before, the words would be better she had promised herself as her mouse hovered over the delete button. It would inevitably end like every other time and she would fall to the hope that it would soon be perfect.
I kept telling myself I was able, I was able to do what I longed for. Yet black keys with little white letters stared me down. I began thinking I would never be good enough. It stressed me out the way my passion grew. The sweet sound the keyboard made when it clicked rapidly, the cause of a great idea but then the click of the backspace when I realized, it wasn’t good enough. would I ever be good enough? I gazed at a vacant white page on a computer screen for hours. The white little letters yelling my name I can hear them. Depressive sounds I could hear them make, I felt as if they missed the way my fingertips would gently tap their surface. I knew I had miss the way they embraced my fingertips with a loose grasp. My passion grew and grew yet I couldn’t. My desire to write failed me and longing the to make something of myself…would have to wait till another day.
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