–Audrey Driscoll
Having read Berthold’s post and Mark’s response, I thought I’d better offer my view. I’ve been writing a first draft for the past six months, so I’m in a great position to ponder the question. Why is writing so hard?
First, do I think it’s hard? Answer: yes. It’s certainly not like when I wrote my first novel in 2000-2001. As Mark said of his early writing experience, back then I couldn’t not write. Part of me was always in the world of my novel, throwing out ideas, Even at work I’d stop and scribble them down, or sketch entire scenes. I could hardly wait to get back to the manuscript. I wrote for at least 2 or 3 hours every night, after a full day at work.
Now? I’ve been retired for five years, and all the stuff I jammed into weekends and days off has expanded to fill most of my free time. (Weird how that happens.) And writing? Well, that’s different too.
I’ve written six books since that first one, and each one has been harder than the last. I work on my present WIP for an hour a day if I’m lucky, often way less than that. I have to get in my page a day first thing in the morning, and if I don’t manage that, I fall behind my self-declared schedule. Still, I am more or less where I hoped to be by this time, but the first draft is a mass of scribble that may deliver some unpleasant surprises when I return to the beginning and turn it into an editable document.
As to why it’s so hard to produce that first draft, well, here’s my list:
- It’s unreasonable to expect every writing project to be as exciting, fun, and easy as the first one. The next novel or story will be freighted with expectations and experiences created by the first, so it can’t possibly be the same, Goodbye, innocence.
- The writer probably “incubated” a first novel or story for a long time before sitting down to write it. That’s why it poured out with little effort. Sequels or later stories don’t get the long development period in the writer’s brain; hence the hard labour of creation in front of the blank page, Having become an actual writer rather than an aspiring one, the person has to write every day, to create a body of work or crank out a series. Because that’s what real writers do.
- I wrote my first few books with minimal exposure to the internet. I had access to it at work but not at home. I became connected at home in 2010 so I could publish. Along with that came blogging, which exposed me to a deluge of advice to writers. A good deal of it is useful, but it certainly empowers the inner critic. I’ll be scribbling away, laying down the story, when that little voice whispers things like “Uh-oh–filter words!” or “That’s a cliche,” or “Don’t you know ‘was’ is bad?” The critic’s finger wags and the writer’s pen stops moving.
- Nascent stories are fragile. An idea, a fleeting glimpse of a character, a ghost of a plot. Sometimes it feels like turning these figments into prose is like sculpting an ice cube–it melts and disappears, despite the writer’s efforts. Fear of this happening may be enough to keep one from writing.
- There is also fear of brevity. For all the praise of spare, tight writing, it’s disconcerting if something intended to be a substantial novel (80-100K words) ends up as a 40K novelette with a flimsy little plot. A desperate effort to remedy this may be pages of padding. Padding is no fun to write. It takes the form of unnecessary scenes, unnecessary detail, or unnecessary dialogue. Watching cat videos is more fun than writing that stuff.
- Fear of making wrong choices. There’s the opening scene and an intended ending. Or maybe just the opening scene. (Pantsers, I’m looking at you!) In between is an infinity of choices, an infinity of decisions to be made. Each decision eliminates a world of possibilities and may lead to places the writer doesn’t want to go. Just thinking about this has a paralyzing effect.
I think the love/hate thing is part of being a writer. When the hate (or weariness) overcomes the need to turn idea sparks into stories, we just stop writing. But as long as we have the desire to embody ideas and imaginings in words, we’ll force ourselves to sit down in that chair and beat out the story. Grumbling and grousing, but pushing on. And appreciating the moments of true inspiration.
Writers Supporting Writers 
You make several excellent points that I never thought of.
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I find that first draft difficult as well for many of the reasons you note. With my current WIP, I took on something that I haven’t done before, and I don’t know if I can pull off.
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I’m sure you experience a combination of excitement and terror, Liz. I hope you work it out!
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Those are the best ones.
My wife and her poetry writing friends have this saying ‘Don’t get it right. Get it written,’
Best wishes for the project
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Of course you can pull it off, Liz. I never write the same thing twice. Where there is a will there is a way.
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I certainly agree with many of your points. I wrote my first three books strictly for the love of writing/creating. Self publishing them was the icing on the cake. And it is true that after that I felt that I needed to write a novel a year like a real author, so yes, it was a bit more like work. I had written my first books without discovering all the advice on writing that is out there. However, since I like my style, I still don’t pay too much attention to it. I never have a problem with brevity. I can’t be brief to save my soul. Story ideas are my weakness. I don’t have many, not ones I care to write, anyway. But if I work out a story – front to back – I believe I know how to tell it, so I don’t worry about engineering my stories, like many writers do. It either flows, or it end in the scrap pile. (Parts of The Secret of the Tzarista Moon was salvaged from the scrap pile, so you never know, sometimes it just takes a different approach.) In any event, even if it’s sometimes work, writing is still fun for me.
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That’s how it should be, Chuck–a combination of work and fun. We indies who don’t depend on an income from our writing are lucky to be able to write and publish in ways that suit us.
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These are all good points. Fear of making the wrong choices is a big one for me.
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Well thought out and your comments feel pretty true.
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Thank you, JeanMarie!
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I’m in agreement about those first drafts, Audrey, and could relate most to your last point. Until that draft is done, there are an infinite number of choices, and characters are often volatile. For me, it’s like walking a tightrope with a whole lot of pressure to get to the other side. The focus has to be intense, so it’s exhausting. I’m tired just thinking about it!
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Walking a tightrope is exactly the right simile, Diana! Thanks for your comment!
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I wonder if there isn’t a qualifier missing from your topic… Why Writing (Well) is Hard. If I have the time, I can write schlock all day long. But, I no longer have the time and writing schlock is no longer appealing.
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Good point! Although my first drafts almost always feel like crap and have to be massaged before they start to resemble good writing.
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I completely agree with you about being retired. I wrote more when I worked full time!! What? I thought I would have bags of time to write once I retired. Silly me. I also think we have higher expectations of ourselves once we have a few books under our belt. All great points.
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Thanks, Darlene!
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There’s not a word I disagree with here, or in either of the previous discussions, but I’ve discovered something in myself as a result of reading a novel completely unrelated to writing. For me, what you’re talking about goes beyond fear of failure to a place where past experience tells you that you were right to be afraid. That whatever you write, it will never be good enough.
Why? Because it’s based on /experience/.
– Because millions of readers aren’t leaving enthusiastic reviews on Amazon, or anywhere.
– Because millions of people aren’t rushing to Amazon to buy any of the other stories you’ve written.
– Because the stories that do get 1000’s of reviews are stories you [mostly] wouldn’t read, or want to write.
Elitist? No. Generational.
I grew up reading different kinds of books so what I consider to be ‘good’ often doesn’t match what younger readers consider to be good. So if that’s not what I enjoy reading, how can I possibly write something that will appeal to /that/ audience?
The obvious answer is that I can’t. I grit my teeth and keep writing, but sometimes the sense of futility is overpowering, and it takes a positive review to yank me out of it. ‘Gee, someone does like my work? Okay, maybe it’s not futile after all.’
Apologies, this feels like the kind of confession I’ll probably wish I hadn’t made, but…sometimes you have to lance the boil.
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You know, there probably is a point where I’ll conclude there’s no point in going through the hard parts of writing something for the reasons you’ve listed. I’ve lowered my expectations of sales and reviews down to mere nubs, so there isn’t a lot of wiggle room left there. And I keep being reminded that the readership for most of us indies of a certain age is other indies of that age. As we shuffle off the stage, there will be no readers left.
Aargh, this is getting depressing. Still, I intend to finish what I’m working on (a sequel to She Who Comes Forth, and it will NOT become a trilogy). After that–I’m not sure.
Lancing certain boils is a good thing, sometimes.
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Try this one to keep in the ‘armoury of confidence’
‘I wrote something no one else has, nor could have done. It’s mine’
Just a thought.
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Those are all very cogent points Audrey.
Somewhere there is a balance between:
‘Oh my. Dare I?’
and
‘Full steam ahead and damn the torpedoes,’
For reach writer the balance is different, I suspect it’s even different with every project too.
We wouldn’t miss it for the world though would we?
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Not when it’s done, or nearly. Slogging through the middle, though, can be disheartening. But right now, the end is in sight!
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A lovely post, Audrey. I said to my son today that it is a good thing that I work in a demanding job. That diversion makes me much more determined to write and to make the best of the sparse time I have available. I think if I had a lot of time, I would do less, that is just how life is.
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That may very well be, Robbie. Time compression plus a desire to accomplish something produces its own energy.
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