Why I Can’t Quit, Even if I Fail
I’ve tried to quit writing many times. I’ve gone long periods of time without blogging much and leaving manuscripts moldering in long-forgotten computer backups. While the art of words was gone from my fingers and even at times my conscious mind, I couldn’t seem to erase its etchings from my heart.
Some people would call this a calling. I think that limits it too much. Writing is an action we choose to take. Nearly anyone can do it, though not everyone will do it well. Stephen King says a bad writer can become a good writer but it’s difficult if not impossible for a good writer to become a great writer; that somehow that feature is born rather than made.
Not writing silences the voices of all of the above.
I do not claim to be a great writer, I have worked hard and continue to work harder to become a good one. But I do know that there is something of words in my DNA. Because even the times when I haven’t been writing, the words won’t leave me alone. I can have nothing and feel like I’m out of ideas, and the minute I resolve to quit the ideas seem to flow. I don’t have goals for my writing like I used to. Yes, I have another book I’m trying to edit and publish and a third I’m writing, and yes, I want to expand my social media platform because that is necessary to the writing world these days.
I only have one overarching goal. Keep writing.
When we have our deepest, coldest winters in the northeast United States, you sometimes have to leave the faucet dripping to keep the pipes from freezing. I need to keep the words flowing, even if it’s only a dribble. The shadow of failure hangs over me almost constantly. But I cannot walk away and remain wholly myself.
It can be difficult to call yourself a writer when you don’t get paid to do it very often.
I took ballet lessons, in various formal and informal settings during junior high and through high school. When I arrived at college, I was excited to find that my first choice university had a strong dance program, but not a pre-professional level one. I thought I’d fit right in. But I quickly discovered my background was very different from the other dancers I worked with. I had been trained to dance in church, though this was a Christian university most of the dancers I knew came from denominations where dance was not part of their worship experience. Where I had trained in small groups with a lot of personal attention, it had been less formal than the almost daily studio classes many of the dancers I met had come from.
While I never became a dance major or even a dance minor (I finished two classes short because of my decision to graduate early), I carried that identify with me into adulthood. I had additional training from committed teachers in my early adulthood and I think I am probably a more mature dancer today, even if a less athletic one. But I still struggle to call myself a dancer.
Why? I lead the dance ministry at our church. We meet weekly choreographing, teaching, planning and, of course, dancing. I am still a performer but in many ways I am more. So why do I struggle with the label? Is it because my body doesn’t look like that of a classically trained dancer anymore (I’m not sure it ever did), or is it because my work doesn’t feel like enough? As if weekly meetings and bi-yearly pieces shared on a Sunday morning feels like too little to qualify for the title.
My writing is the same. People ask me what I do, and I usually begin with talking about my kids and the fact that I homeschool. Sometimes I mention that I write.
Because I don’t get paid, does that make it less like work when I put the words down on paper, whether like a miner with a pick ax or an avalanche?
It’s good and healthy to have goals, but I’m a classic overachiever who sets my sights way too high almost every time. Then I feel guilty for all that I haven’t accomplished. Sometimes I just need to strip it all way and commit to just calling myself a writer and doing the work. Regardless of word count, or publishing schedules, I need to keep the words flowing even I don’t accomplish my goals.
Even if my work isn’t good enough. Even when I fail.
