Why Do We Write?

They say it’s a numbers game, but I’m opting out.

Identity Crisis Mode: Activated

The past year writing my book has been much like my first year of marriage: somehow euphoric, exciting, tiring, and demanding all at once. At the end of the day, both sets of 365 days arose from a place of unconditional love and commitment, setting the stage for the years ahead. I loved every minute of each. Every moment spent with my computer and a mug of something, creating a world that only I could see, and every moment of being married to my husband, laughing and building a life together, has filled me with transcendent happiness. Even when it didn’t.

It’s the other stuff—figuring out publicity, marketing myself as an author, chasing the algorithm for visibility and reach; or dealing with everyday stressors, shifts in career, and navigating life’s challenges as a newly married couple—that distract us from the beauty of the thing itself.

My husband and I had to learn to keep the core of who we are as a couple safe from the outside world. The sanctity of our marriage remains true, despite how the people, places, and things around us may operate. And that doesn’t mean shit’s perfect, but for that pesky outside world. It just means we know who we are, though sometimes external forces cause us to forget.

And I know who I am. As a writer. As a woman. As a person in long-term recovery. As a member of the human race. It’s the numbers game, the race for recognition, the hustle, that fools me into thinking I’m not enough.

I’ve been doing my best to churn out two essays a week, make daily social media content across all platforms, and learn how to be my own publicist, all while managing the moving pieces of publishing a book for the first time. It reminds me of when I did every play in high school, rode in every horseshow in college, and accepted every new client as a therapist. Eventually, I burnt out on those things.

But I cannot, will not, burn out on this. Because much like my husband is my soulmate, the one I found at the end of a path of paved with a million fuck ups, writing is my life partner. Like the failed relationships that brought me to Tanner, the fizzled-out conquests of my younger years brought me to storytelling.

So I’m opting out. Of the numbers. Of the hustle. Of the competition. Because it destroys my mental health, and writing, actually writing, is a need that runs as deep as food, water, and oxygen. Beginning this book, this journey, was like coming up for air, like the feeling of your last first kiss.

All this to say, I’m hiring a book publicist and going back to just writing my weekly Tuesday evening post. Sometimes, the Chronicles of Cringe will be featured, and sometimes, it will be something else. I’ll create social media content and connect with followers and subscribers from a genuine place of creativity and love rather than a scarcity mindset. And much like my husband and I continue to build a relationship that will last a lifetime, I choose to approach my writing in the same way: we’re in it for the long haul.

So during my mini existential crisis, I’ve asked myself a million times, “Why do you write?” and I’ve come up with a million more fancy answers. But only two mattered.

1. It is a need; a need to make sense of the world and the people in it.

2. I fucking love it.

See you on Tuesday.

Photo by Europeana on Unsplash