Upon an Ocean of Words
When I started writing, I had such big hopes.
I had dreams of success, of fame and wealth, and above all of respect. Respect from friends whose esteem was slipping through my fingers, respect from those whose work I adored, and respect from those who would adore my own work.
That… hasn’t happened.
Those whose respect I have sought have been riven further from me. The harder I try to win them back, the faster they seem to slip away, until I begin to wonder if they were ever with me to begin with. Respect amongst my fellow authors has come, but its been slow and full of dead-ends. Authors don’t stop being people when they become authors. If anything, being an author hammers you down until you are the most yourself that it is possible to be.
I wanted so badly to make my living by creating things that people enjoy. I know that I lack the vital spark of wit or intelligence which will allow me to be at the fore, but I put my heart and soul into everything that I do. I have feedback from people both inside and outside the industry which indicates that I am not wasting my time, but it feels like I’ve come no further than the day I started doing this.
I have been disabused of all notions that mine will be the quick and easy path. That the work I do will somehow break the mold and it will be cake all the way down. Writing has become just another job: I have a schedule that I adhere to, I have goals and I meet my deadlines. I sit down most nights ready to work, but I had to start over six times before I managed to write more than thirty words for this post.
Work isn’t fun. People say that working at something you love isn’t work, and I strongly disagree. Writing is labor, pure and simple. It is time and effort and willpower every single time you sit down in front of the keys. There is no exception. There is no magical shortcut, no corner to turn. You work until you finish or you quit. Every. Time.
What keeps me going is the knowledge that even though I’ve lost all childish dreams and happy-go-lucky thoughts when it comes to writing, I still haven’t lost a sense of purpose. It feels good to write. To feel my fingers fly across the keys as my mind spirals out and away. Writing gives my daydreams full sway, allowing them to become Captain of the HMS Wally. I am allowed to see new horizons as I sail across oceans of pure imagination.
It fills me with wonder as it must’ve filled sailors of old. There is power in it, the deep and eldritch spells of ancient rituals and slumbering gods. I feel a connection to those who have come before and to those who will come after. I feel the scope of human history that I so often lack away from my keyboard. It is the knowledge that although the heroes we create may be the same, it is the faces we give them which have meaning. We pull from the waters to channel ourselves and the world we live in, and when we are done what we have made flows back into the waters. For all of history, we have pulled from this ocean to create anchors for our present. Authors channel the epochs of the past, using what has come before to help us see all that could yet be.
Sure that’s work, but I’ll be dammed if it isn’t magic too.
Stalwartfully,
The Unsheathed Quill
