NaNoWriMo is coming up, and I wish I could take part. I've never really cared that much about it before, but right now my schedule is ridiculously busy (I shouldn't even be writing this post), and I'm buried under mountains of other peoples' writing. I'd gladly take a month-long sabbatical with no goal but to be creative and write--drivel or not.
This makes me ponder what motivates people to write, and not only write, but what makes them want to write well. I know what it takes for me. The clearer I write, the more interesting the characters I create, and the more vivid the imagery I can produce, the better chance I have of getting my work published. This attention to detail, of course, carries over into my daily (read: non-creative) writing, because I care when I misuse punctuation. I care when I notice that a phrase is sloppy and can be revised for efficiency. I care when I notice--drat, too late!--a heinous error in the email I just rashly clicked along its merry way.
The mystery to me is when I see people who have sufficient motivation to care as much as I do, but they make it all too clear that it's the least of their worries. What bothers me is when it becomes my problem, but I suspect I make it too much of my problem. These kinds of people don't care, and maybe rightly so, because apparently no one has explained why they should care. I wish I could do it, but so far, my efforts have had minimal effect--like taking one step forward and two steps back.
It's tough, though, not to weep for our future when I present a short story (easily a part of literary canon) to a group of people, only to have them moan about how "pointless" it is. Yes, they caught me; they found me out. I thrill to hear the tortured cries of those subjected to the antiquated and the mundane. But wait, how do they react to a piece of contemporary fiction, something with a modern and familiar voice? It's confusing. It's just too hard to understand.
What's most bothersome to me about all this is that these attitudes seem to be held by the majority. I have friends who love to read and write often, and they do it well. We don't have the time to participate in NaNoWriMo, but I have a loose agreement with a friend to finish at least one short story during the month, and I'm afraid I may not even have the time for that unless I do it over the Thanksgiving break. We want to write. We want to share our views of the human experience, the exultant, the decrepit, the honorable, and the despicable. We want to write for people who understand our perspective, and for those who might not but still want to try. We want to write because it feels good to write, for the simple sake of doing, and to hopefully get better at it.
We don't write because it's pointless.
This post didn't really go in the direction I'd intended, but I guess, despite some of the bleakness, the subtitle of this post could be: "A Love Note to All the Writers Who Care." I miss your company. I also spent far too long writing this post, but I don't care. Hear my rebel yell.
*edit: I had to revise a sloppy phrase.
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