Thoughts on writing... or not

Wondering if I really do want to be a writer or if I just like to yap

I think I’ve always enjoyed writing.

I say I think because I’m not finding the sort of enjoyment and purpose I thought I’d find when I decided to publish something here every week for a year. Have I always enjoyed writing, or have I only enjoyed the thought of being a writer?

I know it’s not that simple, really. I wouldn’t have participated in elective writing competitions and camps in grade school if I was disinterested, and I’m not so hard on myself to be unable to admit I have written a few good sentences from time to time

unsurprisingly, third grade Janette had a lot to say

On the other hand, I’ve had several book ideas over the years that amount to nothing. I thought writing here every week would help me write with more discipline, which it has done, but not in a way that has lent itself to me writing a book the way I imagined it would. I am proud of a few of my posts, and sometimes feel a stroke of inspiration, but most of the time I’m dragging my feet to the keyboard, not sure what I’m going to write until my fingers start tapping away. Here I am now, writing at 10:00pm on a Sunday so that I don’t miss a week posting, even though my self-imposed deadline is Fridays.

I’ve heard many authors say they don’t enjoy writing but they do enjoy having written. I’ve wondered if that’s true of me, but many weeks I look back at what I’ve written and the primary feeling I have is pride that I kept my promise to myself to keep the habit up. What I wrote often has little to do with it.

I’m prone to overthinking, so maybe that’s what this is. And this might be the most boring thing any of you read this week, if you do indeed read it. I personally like getting a peek behind the curtain of someone’s process, but I know that’s not everyone’s cup of tea. I could write this in a personal journal if I kept one, but alas, I do not. Writing here is much more motivating, even on the days when it is not.

I’ve also been diagnosed with ADHD this year and I’m learning the myriad of ways that shows up in my daily life. Need for novelty and purpose are big factors for me. If I can’t make some profound meaning of my habits, I’m far less likely to keep them. The most meaningful part of this experiment has been that I’ve actually kept up the routine, not the words I’ve strung together in the process.

I feel curious about my increasing resistance. I really thought I wanted to build a social media platform so that I could demonstrate to the proverbial publisher that I was a good bet one day. I sometimes feel envy when I see other writers in my niche rapidly gaining subscribers, wishing I had the wherewithal or talent to make it happen for myself. But in reality, the rigamarole of maintaining a social media profile is more often than not a cost I do not want to add to my tab despite my earlier admission that I’m motivated by writing publicly.

Is it simply that the novelty has worn off? Years ago I heard novelist Katherine Center describe her writing process; she writes a full book in a matter of weeks while on retreat somewhere in a cabin or something like that. I thought… Oh, now that I could do. I have never been motivated by the idea of writing a book a little at a time, but I did once write nearly 50,000 words for my certification paperwork in under 10 days. I write most of my sermons within 24-48 hours of preaching them. I like the urgency. Perhaps the weekly, shortform writing that Substack is designed for is not my style.

I do know that I like to express myself, and I like to talk, and I like to put my ideas out there. I love writing sermons and preaching them. I love to tell a good story that makes people laugh. I love bringing like-minded people together and building a community. Does all of this equate to being a writer? Or could I express myself just as well in a podcast? In teaching and preaching? At an open mic night? Or leading a parish?

I’ll keep writing through the end of August, at least. That’s the year mark. But I’ve not yet decided what comes next. I know I don’t really have to decide, but if I don’t give it some thought, then the milestone will pass by and I’ll live in that indecision and do… nothing. If I do nothing, I’d at least like to do it on purpose.

I’m curious to hear what of this may resonate with you, if anything. Whether your craft is writing or something else: does it feel this tedious to you, too?

I’m thinking about myself a few summers ago, in the driver’s seat of my car in my driveway, googling how do you know if you’re bisexual? I was a few years removed from my ordination in a conservative Christian tradition, and I felt settled enough in my new church home, primary relationships, and job to begin noticing things about myself I had never thought to explore. My sexuality was one of them, but I did not yet feel ready to verbalize this question to others. My search provided all kinds of Cosmo magazine-like links with lists of traits, thoughts, and actions that commonly define a bisexual person. Almost all of them ended with some version of “And if you’re asking the internet how to know if you’re bi, you probably are.” Welp, there it was.

I have found that logic to be true about other things. Ask me about how much time I’ve spent researching how ADHD manifests in women before I had the courage to bring it up with my doctor. I remember spending a lot of time wondering about my use of eye contact (and the situations in which I avoid it) when I read, “People who don’t struggle with eye contact don’t usually wonder about their eye contact.” Welp, there it was again.

I think the questions we explore about ourselves reveal some level of self-knowing that only rises to the surface when we raise the questions out loud in one way or another.

Perhaps this is like that. Does the fact that I’m wondering if I’m truly interested in writing — in being a writer — answer its own question? Do people unconcerned with writing spend their Sunday evenings forging more than 1,000 words trying to figure it out?

Until next weekend,
Janette

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