A certain familiar aspect of my life, restated

I was reading the blog of Brandon Sanderson, LDS author of some of my new favorite books. He recently wrote a blog about his life as an unpublished author--the period in which he was writing before his first book was published. He describes the descent of his writing as he tried to write for the market, as he tried to write what editors were telling him people wanted to read, and how it made his writing worse. He wrote a full dozen novels before one was published. He also writes about a point at which he firmly decided that he wanted to write novels for a living, and his determination to do whatever it took to do it. Further on, he writes about his decision to go to a Master's program for creative writing, to surround himself with a community of aspiring writers. And then he writes about his first success--one of the very first novels he had written.

I guess it got me thinking, which I tend to do too much of anyway. Right now, I'm still planning to go back to school, at least part time, and I'm planning to study social work. I see this as a viable option, because it is a career I think I could invest in--if not passionately, then at least enjoyably. It's something I think I could find satisfaction in doing.

However, I've never given up on my desire to be a novelist. This one thing has never wavered--I have been a writer since I was a child, and I have never stopped for any real length of time. Sometimes I am embarrassed to admit this, and often I try to hide my work from those around me who take note of it. After all, novel-writing is hardly a lucrative business. And besides, there are thousands of people who claim to be writers, who either never finish a single full-length work, or whose writing is childish and unimaginative. I have known many such people, and these are what cause my embarrassment when professionals around me take note of the inordiante amount of time I spend with a notebook or a Word file open.

I fully recognize the flaws in my own writing. I am not a published novelist (though I do have some claim with a few short stories) and there is good reason for it. I recognize that I have potential that I have not yet reached.

I also recognize that I want to be a professional novelist.

Here is my issue with this declaration: only the very very lucky and the exceptionally talented writers ever get published. It's an enormous market, awash with mediocre manuscripts from aspiring artists who want to make the big bucks. And, as affirmed to me by Mr. Sanderson, one cannot write for the market. This was the biggest problem with my most recently completed project--I was trying, honestly attempting to write the next Harry Potter saga. And it failed, miserably. It's terribly childish. And I realized--even if I could not express it so eloquently as Mr. Sanderson--that I can't write FOR something, that I can't make myself write something that I don't have in me. Certainly, I finished the novel. It's a goodly length, with a handful of noteworthy ideas. But it is poorly written and even more poorly plotted. It's boring. As I have been told time and again by writers and writing instructors, I must write for myself first. If a writer does not enjoy writing something, why would a reader enjoy reading it?

And so I move forward with my life. I have escaped the dry, monotonous spell that my muse left me in for a number of weeks. I am adjusting to real life. I am becoming accustomed to the day-in day-out nature of a full time job. And in the midst of this mediocrity, I write. The words spill from my fingertips as they often have, until I cannot believe how many pages have been filled that day, and then again the next. And perhaps they are not the prettiest words, and perhaps it is not the most interesting plot, but the next one will be better, as this one shall be better than the last. And perhaps one day, it all shall be worth it. That, my friends, is what we call hope.