In a recent
post I suggested that writers ask themselves how much they want to be published. It’s a useful exercise, prompted by recent conversations that reminded me that --despite the shoals of neo-pros attending every convention-- not every writer wants to be published professionally; some are happy to write fan-fiction. Some don’t write for publication at all.
That leads to an even deeper question – why do you write in the first place? At Bristolcon recently someone asked that very question, and to be honest, I ducked it, giving an answer that echoes something I’d said at Worldcon, “Because if I don’t, I get depressed.” That’s true, but it’s an answer that diagnoses a symptom, rather than the disease.
In
Word Work, Bruce Holland Rogers suggested (and here I'm going to paraphrase him...) that at some point in their life every writer should ask themselves why they write. Different writers have different ideals. The writer who does so to pay the bills will have a different approach to those who blog for pleasure. The person who simply needs to write an overwhelming emotion out of their system will have a different approach again.
But the answer isn’t always comfortable.
With each passing year, the probability that I will die in the next decade increases. Every one of us knows that we’re going to die, but we rarely dwell on the subject. But I’m quite clear on the subject; I as a person will cease to exist, absolutely and irrevocably. I do not believe in an afterlife, either heavenly or cybernetic. Most people circumvent their death by having children, who will perpetuate their memory if not their physical bodies. Kate and I chose years ago not to have children, and therefore don’t have that placebo.
My books are my children. Literally. They will –perhaps—perpetuate my identity when the last person who knew me ceases to exist. That’s why I write the way that I do, taking time to write books that will hopefully linger in the memory. It’s not always comforting, but knowing it helps inform my decision-making processes.