Good Writing Takes Work. It Shouldn't Send You to Your Fainting Couch.

It's not out to destroy you, no matter what you might think.

Trigger warning: This could hurt your feelings.

I’ve been a writer for a long time. Through many, many decades. I’ve been a member of writers organizations, I’ve been a speaker and workshop leader at writers conferences, I’ve taught classes on writing, I’ve written in many different genres and I’ve been involved in writing communities off-line and on-line. All of it was scary. Really scary.

Now I write this newsletter, geared mainly toward creative writing—the personal, the painful, the sublime—and this is scary, too. I’ve been there. But you’ll notice I’m still here.

What I say here today is meant for those writers who write from the heart and from the gut—those organs that produce fear among writers. I concentrate on the creative aspects of writing but I want to do it without scaring anyone. Creative writing is scary enough without adding those burdens by describing in detail all of the reasons it might be scary.

Who needs that?

Well, apparently a lot of new writers think they do.

There are thousands of stories about writing here at Substack. Many of them are exceptional — full of ruminations and reminiscences and revelations—but way too many of them start out and end up as anguished personal confessions about what the post writer sees as his or her own failures.

So many stories about threatening to quit writing; so many about how unfair the world is when it won’t recognize their talent. There are so many stories about the downside of writing it’s become a freaking cottage industry.

If you’re one of those writers and you came here looking for solace, I can’t give it to you. I’m not here to hold your hand or to beg you to keep on keeping on.

You’re either a writer or you’re not.

Writing is an ancient and revered form of communication. Over eons we’ve learned to understand the world and its people through writing. Without writing we would still be separate tribes isolated by our ignorance of life outside our own villages. Writing helps us evolve. Writing inspires us. If there were no writers the world would be a cold and dreary place.

Is writing hard? Damn right it is. It’s supposed to be hard. The hard work is what separates amateurs from the professionals. Professionals work on honing their writing. Amateurs work at getting noticed.

I realize not everyone writing here wants to become a professional writer. Many of you are just grateful for a platform for your thoughts. I get that. And I’m happy when I see some of you go on to shine. Sometimes I think you even surprise yourselves. You didn’t know you had it in you! It’s a joy to watch.

Keyword: joy.

But let’s be clear: Even when the writing is brutal and hard to read, when writers bare their souls and tell us secrets they’ve kept hidden because, until now, shame has guided their lives, there is a kind of joy in the ways they’ve chosen to tell their stories. They’ve learned how to make us care.

The good ones build the story and tell the tale, not because they want your pity, but because they want their story to resonate, to speak to someone out there going through something similar, to let them know they’re not alone — and to let us know that the human condition is complex. The more we learn, the less inclined we are to judge.

The good ones aren’t complaining about a lack of audience for their writing, because they’re too busy writing stories that will draw readers. That’s the goal. Writing to draw readers.

So the next time you’re feeling miffed or sad or insulted because nobody wants to read what you write, think again.

Writing about how you’re feeling about your writing is an exercise in self-indulgence.

Most of us are writers, too, and the truth is, we can’t get too excited that you think writing is ruining your life. Honestly. We’ve got our own problems and when we see another Poor Me story about writing, we pass it by. It keeps us from screaming out loud.

There are other hobbies, other professions. Writing isn’t for everyone. If it’s more pain than pleasure, that should tell you something.

Get out. Get out now. Why are you still here?

Another thing. My goodness, PLEASE: If you are a writer—and you’re sure of that—don’t ask the world and your readers what you should write about. You’re the writer. They’re waiting for you to come up with something.

Writers look at the world and the world looks different to each of us. We find those things, often exquisite things, nobody else could write about in the same way we can. And honestly? That thrills us. We live for those moments of discovery. We work at getting the words just right. We want to do those moments justice and it’s worth the time it takes.

Over time, it gets easier, but it’s never easy. If it were easy anyone could do it. They can’t. Not like we can. We learn to trust our own instincts. We learn to love our search for words. We feel it over time, and before we know it we’re saying it out loud: we’re writers.

The thing that separates us from the would-be’s is our commitment to our craft, our dedication to the words. We’ve chosen to do this, and, even on our worst days, when we want to fling whatever writing implement we’re using against a wall, we know we wouldn’t give it up for the world.

We’re stuck. Happily, miserably stuck. Our writing owns us now.

If that’s not you, by now you have two choices: You can either quit and save yourself even more misery, or you can choose this writing life because you know at some point it will give you more pleasure than pain.

It’s up to you. Nobody else can help you decide. So please stop asking any of us to make your decisions for you. We’re busy. We’re writing here. You might want to try that, too, instead of whining about it.

You’d be surprised at how the simple act of writing tends over time to make you a writer.