The other day, I dropped in on my neighbor to deliver a plate of cookies. I love to bake cookies, cakes, brownies, pies, etc.  My granddaughters love to bake with me, and it affords quality time with them.  Sometimes, I bake before they come, and the house smells of chocolate, cinnamon or vanilla.  However, too many goodies in the house equal too much temptation to eat them.   So, in order to enjoy the creative process with my grandchildren and maintain my baker’s reputation but not partake in the results, I distribute to my neighbors whatever the grandkids don’t eat or take home.

This week, after I dropped off some chocolate chip cookies, my neighbor invited me to stay a few minutes.  We shared a bit of time in her warm and welcoming home—one of my joys.  After questioning me about my next book, she stopped and said, “It must be difficult to spend so much time on a writing project—years even—and all the while never knowing whether it will prove to be a book, and if it does, whether anyone will want to read it.  I can’t imagine the perseverance involved.”

I thought for a few minutes before addressing my neighbor’s statement. Perseverance is what keeps me at my desk when my muse is hiding herself from me, warm days draw me outside, or I’m sleep deprived.  She was asking what motivated the perseverance. I answered, “I don’t think too much about the end game when I’m at my desk.  The fact is, I relish the process, the day-to-day effort. Whether I get anything published, whether another person reads it and likes it, whether it takes years, are important issues, but they are not what keep me writing.  I love the writing journey, and what I write springs from that love.”

Several times over the years, I’ve tried to produce a blog entitled Why I Write.  After I attempted to do so three or four times, each blogs ended up in my computer’s iconic trash bin.  I wrote for many reasons, and they blended together in such a way as to confuse me about motivation.  It never occurred to me to visualize myself at my desk and ask how I feel in the moment. 

Instead, because I was abused as a small child if my mom caught me with pencil and paper, I decided that my writing sprang from a rebellious well.  I wanted the last word–always.  (Anyone who knows me knows just how stubborn I can be.)  But I knew that didn’t explain my persistence.  After all, I wasn’t always in a state of rebellion.

Then, too, writing helped me process a difficult childhood–a saving grace.  It gave me direction.  It made my life richer, helped me sort out confusing situations, and enabled me to make healthier decisions that proved to be effective.  Writing is like a best friend who holds a mirror up to me and reflects who I am—my strengths and flaws.  Receiving this grace through writing is a tremendous gift; but then again, it didn’t always explain my persistence.

At some point, I decided that being an author provided a source of identity. As a child, when I observed words that I wrote on a paper, it grounded me.  Loss of identity is a common occurrence with the abused child, and writing prevented that.  The term “I write—therefore I am” might apply here.  I considered that if I quit writing, I might disappear.  One seldom wants to disappear—yet identity, too, didn’t explain the perseverence.

After years of sorting what didn’t need to be sorted, I concluded that I love creating through words on paper. I love the fact that I sit at my desk and two hours pass in what seems like 15 minutes.   I love that I get lost in creating, forgetting all my problems. For a few hours, I drift away to invented places with people I meet in my imagination.  How much fun is that?  I get to be a professional liar.  How much fun is THAT?

When I explained this, my neighbor then understood why I keep writing, despite the uncertain results—and at last, so did I.   But despite my love of writing, from time to time I still must climb over a list of excuses like exhaustion, an unclear direction, fear of both failure and success, or lack of confidence.   For now, I’ve put them behind me and write every day.  However, most often between projects, they’ll pop up again.  Sometimes, driven by fear, they invade like a plague of locusts that need to be swept up and tossed out.

After years of navel gazing, sorting through all the reasons that I continue to write, including stubbornness, grace received and identity, I discovered clarity about persistence by answering a neighbor’s question: It’s simple, really.  I write because I LOVE IT!

Copyright: Laurel Jean Becker 10/24/2018