Why do I want to be a writer? I'm trying to remember.

I spent this past weekend at the League of Utah Writers Convention. It was an all day Friday and Saturday deal in which you went to various classes, heard various speakers, and ate buffet styled meals. I am still getting over the buffet styled meals—they weren’t horrible, they just didn’t settle well with me. Hampton Inn, you’re still cool). 

I do feel I learned quite a bit—I have a notebook full of, well, notes.  So obviously, I did feel enlightened enough to write things down. But at the same time, I felt sort of depressed. There are a lot of unpublished writers at this event and the overall feeling is: write because you want to write, because getting a foot in the door of the publishing world is hard to do. I mean, I stare at the hundred plus people at this convention and think, “Crap! These people are my competition in a very competitive writing world. And this is just a handful of what I am up against.” 

So, I left feeling down on myself and I found myself thinking: “Why am I doing this? Why do I want to be a writer?” 

I started doubting in the one thing I LOVE to do. I have always loved to write—since elementary school—and I would like to believe I’m okay at it (I don’t think I suck. I’m at least a step up from the “you suck” level). I love creating a world that did not exist until I put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard). I love inventing characters and watching them evolve and grow through the trials they face. 

I LOVE WRITING. 

But then when you throw in the business side of writing (which I have only delved into a tid-bit) and it becomes less fun. Rejection letters suck. They do. They’re horrible. Waiting for a response from an agent sucks. It does. I’m on pins and needles nearly every day as I wait to hear back from two agents that have my full manuscript (I’m not a good waiter at all), and I have been told it could take months to hear back—months! That’s torture. 

So what do I do? 

Well, I decided I know what I’m not going to do: I’m not going to give up. I can’t. I will write until I take my last breathe. It’s what I have to do. Maybe I will never be published and that’s okay. I will keep on writing regardless. I will embrace my rejection letters. I will try again. I will continue to enter contests I can’t possibly win—because feedback, though not always positive, is feedback and it’s valuable. 

I don’t think I have a choice in this whole writing matter. I don’t think I do. God gave me the love of writing words back when I was a kid. And back then, I didn’t question it. When I wrote something (and I was always writing) I thought it was great stuff. I knew I was great! I just did. 

But I am older now, wiser to the world and its ways, my confidence isn’t so high. I am an insecure writer, which is not a good thing to be, not that a writer should be cocky, but they should believe in what they do. I am working on that.

I guess, as long as the ideas and story lines keep coming, I will keep writing. I need to try to remember the joy of it, still do the business side, but keep it all in perspective—I write because I love it. 

Like John Gilstrap said (paraphrasing), “We all have the ability to become published authors. And if we don’t, well, it just means we died too soon.” (He was one of the speakers and class instructors at the convention. He is a New York Times Best Selling Author. I enjoyed listening to him very much and found his advice very helpful. I have not read any of his work, but BOY do I plan too!) 

Keep on dreaming. I know I plan too.