When we were children, our every activity was guided by the hedonistic pursuit of pleasure. We felt fulfilled after a day spent colouring outside the lines, jumping over carpet-lava, and spinning in circles until we were dizzy and giggling. When we were forced to do something we didn’t like, we’d cry and scream as though putting on clean clothes was an internationally-condemned form of torture, then we’d go back to following our bliss—maybe by building elaborate space-ninja-pirate-castle-ships, or maybe by emptying the contents of the cutlery drawer all over the floor.
Then we grew up.
The first time we sat at a desk and complained that we didn’t want to do our homework, we were told that work isn’t supposed to be fun, but we have to do it anyway. The pursuit of happiness was relegated to weekends and vacations.
We heard it over and over. Work isn’t supposed to be fun. Fun is for children and hobbies.
But that was okay, because we had a hobby we loved: writing.
We slaved away at our unsatisfying jobs, content in the knowledge that when we’d finished, we could relax into the effervescent enjoyment of making up imaginary worlds. Writing was an escape and a pleasure—more akin to those early days of spinning in circles until we were dizzy than actual work.
Then everything changed.
At some point we realised that writing with the intention of publication was nothing short of W-O-R-K work. That old training reared its ugly head. Work isn’t supposed to be fun. Suddenly, it was much harder to approach writing with the same joie de vivre that we once had, because, as we all know, work is supposed to be brain-numbingly dull.
But we worked hard. We learned about voice and tension and the “evil” of adverbs. We joined writing groups, and reading groups, and devoted ourselves to reading books and blogs. We studied great works of literature, and modern breakthrough novels. Then we returned to our own writing and realised the unalienable truth:
Compared to our heroes, our writing is mediocre at best.
Perhaps we considered quitting. Perhaps we even did quit for a while. But eventually, we came back to writing. We couldn’t help it. We massaged our prose, trying to make it as perfect as it could possibly be. We reminded ourselves that work is supposed to be hard. Work isn’t supposed to be fun.
And then a celebrity got a six-figure book deal. Or someone in our writing group got published. Or that other writer—you know, the one who started writing after us, who we always measured ourselves against—signed with an agent. And we found ourselves thinking: It’s not fair. Why does everyone else get the good stuff? I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do. I’ve worked hard. I want what they’re having.
Befriending the Green-Eyed Monster
But no matter how much fun we’re having as we slave away over a hot keyboard, it’s hard not to feel envious about the success of our friends, colleagues, and random strangers on the internet. Time and time again we come across the advice that we shouldn’t compare ourselves to others.
Let’s be honest here: We all do it. It’s part of being human.
But we have a choice. We can spend our energy trying not to make those comparisons, or we can spend our energy pretending (even to ourselves) that we don’t. Or, we can do something radically different.
We can embrace our envy.
When the green-eyed monster shows up in the back of your head, listen to what it has to say:
I wish I was as successful as J.K. Rowling. It’s not fair, I’ll never be able to write like Donna Tartt. I wish I had the effortless cool of Neil Gaiman.
Instead of trying to force those feelings away, realise that your envy isn’t trying to make you feel bad—it’s trying to give you a roadmap. It’s reminding you’re working for: Publishing success, a distinctive writing style, and a battered leather jacket.
The Perfectionist Trap
That’s all well and good, but it doesn’t stop us feeling like we’re not good enough—that our writing is mediocre. But here’s the thing:
We know our failures and our inconsistencies and our struggles intimately. But we only see the successes of others. It’s hard for us to forgive ourselves for our bad writing, because we haven’t seen the bad writing of the authors we admire. We’re comparing our draft to their polished novel; the freshly-poured foundation of our story-mansion to their professionally landscaped and decorated castle.
When was the last time you read an article about a new author who’s been struggling with her first novel for ten years, and is pretty sure she sucks and should just give up, but she’s not going to because maybe one day in the future she’ll get her book published?
We only ever hear the stories of authors who have already succeeded. We hear about their trials and tribulations in the past tense, while we’re experiencing our own in painfully present tense. Of course we feel like we can’t measure up! When that amazing author we’re so in awe of was in our place, she felt exactly the same way about her hero.
In fact, if we keep working, one day we will be the author that other writers look up to, and consider us an overnight success.
The Work of Writing
In the meantime, it’s easy to think that if we learn all the rules and work really hard, we’ll publish a masterpiece. And maybe we will. But the main thing standing between our reality and our dream is ourselves.
The biggest difference, in any industry, between someone who does a great job and someone who achieves greatness through their work is not their understanding of the rules, or their work ethic, or their imagination. It’s their joy. Their excitement for their work. The fun they’re having.
You know, fun: that thing that work is not supposed to be.
I’ve read many articles and books, and listened to many inspirational talks, that say we need to find the fun in our writing. “Stop thinking about it as hard work, and go back to loving it!” they scream to the heavens.
But the thing is, writing is work. It is hard. I like to describe the process of writing a novel as follows:
The story in your head is perfect. It’s the most perfect thing that’s ever existed. Your job, as a writer, is to take that perfect story and translate it into imperfect words in such a way that when someone else reads them, your perfect story comes to life in their mind.
There is absolutely nothing about that process that sounds easy.
So, no, I don’t think we need to stop thinking about writing as being work. I think the most important mental change we can make involves going deeper than that. Right back to those early days, being forced to sit at a desk and do mind-numbingly boring activities when what we wanted to do was explore unknown lands and capture fairies.
We need to stop believing that work can’t be fun. We need to take those joy-killing voices in our heads and lock them in the deepest, darkest dungeons we can find.
Yes, writing is work. But our job is to build castles in the air, and invite all our friends to play in them; to scatter words in circles and encourage people to spin through them until they’re dizzy and giggling; to colour outside the lines of societal expectations and lead our readers over rivers of shark-infested carpet-lava.
Our work is all kinds of fun.
Share with us how much fun you have when you’re writing. What makes you feel dizzy and giggly? When do you feel like you’re colouring outside the lines?
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About Jo Eberhardt
Jo Eberhardt is a writer of speculative fiction, mother to two adorable boys, and lover of words and stories. She lives in rural Queensland, Australia, and spends her non-writing time worrying that the neighbor's cows will one day succeed in sneaking into her yard and eating everything in her veggie garden.
Your keyboard gets hot? I would check that out.
For me, writing isn’t work. It’s like doing a puzzle. It’s absorbing, a fun test, sort of like those brain teasers in the back of popular science magazines. When a page falls together just right, I feel smart.
Until the next day, when that same page looks awful. Then the puzzle starts again. In a way the worst part is when a manuscript is complete and ready for comment. I hate that, because puzzle time is over.
Research is fun too. So are the final chapters, when the story pieces click together like magnets. I don’t envy other writers because the puzzle I’m working on is all mine. It’s the one that interests me. It’s the one I care about.
Well, I do envy one thing. Your keyboard gets hot. You must be having some big fun, there.
I guess I’ve been lucky, Jo. I loved my job. I’d go in early and stay late, work weekends. For sure work is hard but if you enjoy it it isn’t drudgery. Writing is the same. Hard work, but work I love. And I don’t envy hugely successful writers either. They are an encouragement and prod me to work harder. Maybe I’m nuts :)
Jo, I love what you’re saying about re-envisioning ‘work’. My father told me once that I shouldn’t enjoy what I did for work, but being naturally defiant, I rejected the notion. Writing is hard, but why is ‘hard’ bad? “Hard’ is why we get to enjoy its opposite. What I love is the satisfaction of getting it right….finally. Like Benjamin said, solving the puzzle, juggling the pieces. Writing a novel is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But the joy I feel when the pieces fit together and I see a story take shape? It’s like nothing else. And yes, it makes me giggle. Thanks for a wonderful post!!
One of my favorite quotes: “That which we obtain too easily, we esteem too lightly.” Thomas Paine
I really appreciate the message here, Jo. Over the years I’ve found I have a bit of an odd relationship with work. I run really hot or cold on most things – either really passionate and all-in, or meh, maybe I’ll get to it tomorrow.
I’ve been lucky, vocation-wise. In particular because I found something I was really passionate about at a point when I was young enough that my energy-levels really allowed me to make a difference at it. And it turned out to be lucrative. There was a problem-solving aspect to it ( à la Benjamin’s puzzle challenge), and I had a competitive streak and a chip on my shoulder ( à la your aforementioned envy as a plus, Jo). That synergy drove me for about 15 years. Then suddenly, I was cold on it (for too many reasons to list here).
I mention all this because I have to be careful about my hot/cold tendencies when it comes to writing. I do consider it my vocation. And I’ve been mostly red-hot-passionate about it for many years now. And I never want to feel “meh” about it. So when I feel myself cooling, I step away – find something I’m feeling warmer about to occupy me for a time. And, like magic, the heat for writing always comes back. I hope this never ends, and I’m feeling pretty good about my chances of sustaining it.
Here’s an example of why. Yesterday I reached a pretty major turning point in my WIP. Felt good. Living it up, oh yeah, Friday night! But then came the morning after. Now comes the next puzzle piece. Just an hour ago I realized I get to go back to a character I first created about a dozen years ago. And since I’m writing a prequel to that first story, she’s eight (rather than the thirty-something I first envisioned). She’s feisty – a real trouble-maker. The girl (and woman to be) causes havoc wherever she goes, and pretty much wrecks everything she touches. Best of all, she’s my favorite antagonist’s nemesis. Oh, how I’ve missed her. What fun!
Yep, I’m feeling red-hot for this. After more than a decade! Heigh ho! Off to work I go. Thanks for another wonderful essay, Jo.
Jo, your blog today hits home, for sure. Made me stop and really think. Someone once told me that some people are born to be at the table, others are born to be outsiders. And we all know success is never a straight line up. But is success really a destiny? I often think of Herman Melville, a successful author of his first 4 books (Typee being the highest achievement and his fame). But Moby Dick was a complete commercial and critical failure and got horrible reviews. Melville died, forgotten by the literary world, thinking his novel had failed. Today that novel is considered a masterpiece. Not that we think we are all of Melville’s talents, but you are right in saying we must keep on writing, not only because we love the hard work or for the fun of it, but because, maybe, it just might be part of a small destiny.
The writer mind is a divided mind, divided between who we are and the characters renting space. We should embrace who we are along with the satisfaction that comes from accomplishment and the joy that comes from creativity. There are the winter nights alone revising what we’ve already revised and there are the summer walks when inspiration strikes. Too, there are those precious, treasured moments when both overlap, when we’re trudging through an edit and we realize the story has become more than we’d ever envisioned. I’ll take it all because it allows me to be both an adult and a child and over time we’ve become comfortable with each other.
Right now, I’m envying the wisdom of Jo, Benjamin, Linnea, Susan, Fredric, Vaughn, and Paula!
At the completion (if there is such a thing) the first version of my manuscript, I bemoaned the sense that I wouldn’t be able to make it great. I told my husband I could never write a book as great as those written by XYZ (author I admire). He said, “If only great books got published, there would be no good books. Just try to write a good book.” I don’t know if I can do that either, but it feels more achievable.
Interesting.
I’ve never thought of writing as fun.
Hm- is that a problem?
Don’t get me wrong. I’ve had feelings of fulfillment after finishing a writing project or an assignment, but it’s never really felt fun.
There’s no work-fun micro-tension going on here. Maybe, it’s a personality thingy. When it comes to inanimate objects and ideas, fun is a rarity, unless it’s tied to the stimulation of human adrenaline.
For me, fun is manifested through enjoying meaningful relationships or relational events, like watching a video of a 6’2” introverted woman (really) singing about a writing conference. Oops. Sorry. Correction. She was singing about a writing unconference.
In my mind’s eye, writing is a tool used for releasing information or ideas for the purpose of connecting with people or self-help therapy. I primarily use writing for connecting. Fun arrives after a connection is formed as a result of something I’ve written, or if my writing reflects a relationship or relational event. For example,
the only fun part about writing my comment was my compliment to Jo. The comment is tied to a relational event between her and me. Uncon.
Ok ok ok, so I was wrong. I do think of writing as fun, sometimes. But only when it’s tied to relationships. I guess.
Maybe we need a new definition of fun.
Writing is a lot like gardening. Deadheading can be seen as work. But on a fine spring day I get to feel the breeze on my face and chat with my neighbours and get up close and personal with insects coming out of wherever they spend winter. That’s glorious!
Writing is like that too. Some of the time we’re hunched over, cramped, maybe even crawling through the scene word by word.
But if you let go and write like you’re on a bicycle going down hill, no brakes, it can be exhilarating!
I’m actually envious of my “former writing life” – the one where I had the “luxury” of writing any time I wanted, when two incomes allowed me that pleasure.
What makes me all giggly and smiley and fun-lovingly happy in writing? Actually, the last WU blog post I wrote – all tongue in cheek and completely in fun and without worrying about who would like it or comment or anything – I wrote it for the sheer pleasure and fun feeling it gave me!
For me writing feels Shawshank redemption. A lot of my writer envy is of other writers, whose families and friends understand and support their goals. It is a dream of mine; there is no reason I can’t achieve it… plus, unlike in some career fields I could mention, writing has no Mommy Track!