Doing the thing you want to do is not predicated on being the best at it.
It’s taken me years to accept that I’m a fairly mediocre writer. Oh, I’m good — years and years (well over “10,000 hours” by, like, a factor of a zillion) of practice will do that to you. You either get good at what you are doing, or stop.
I never stopped.
Paused a few times, sure. Put it on the back burner, often. But I never stopped.
I still study writing, too. I read books by authors I admire. I read books about writing by authors I admire. I follow writers’ blogs for the same reason. What works? What doesn’t? What makes one story better than other? How does “writer’s voice” connect with “personal brand”? What is the essence of a genre?
For years, I strove to be great. I thought that was important. I thought, “if I’m not great, no one will like my stories or respect me as an author.” I believed that my right to write — my right to creative expression — rested on my ability to produce stunning works of art.
Intellectually, I’ve always put the brakes on my progress with stories because they are…just stories. Stories I want to tell. Romantic, adventurous, plotty, sexy. Not artistic. Not majestic. Not timeless.
Not worthy.
Here’s the thing: nothing I do is a “stunning work of art.” Could I produce something like that? Maybe. But I am not emotionally invested in that goal, so I never will.
For years I’ve harshly judged myself for not being emotionally invested in a goal that, intellectually, I thought was important. I held myself back and berated myself for not doing what I should do.
So what’s changed? I’ve started living by the principle of “want not should”, the idea that I only invest myself in things I want to do. I’m just not interested in creating a literary masterpiece. Never have been. Never will be.
I joked a long time ago, in a very self depreciating and slightly self-punishing way, that I was meant to be a hack writer. I don’t want to be a hack writer, not in any way, but I think the kernel of truth there is that I am only meant to write the stories I care about, as opposed to what my “potential” demands.
I still get jealous when I read or read about “great” authors, people whose writing moves others in a nearly transcendental way. I mean, don’t we all? Jealousy is a writer’s devil on our shoulders, always whispering how we aren’t that good, so why bother?
Good question, really. Here’s why I bother: because I want to.
