A few months back I was catching up with some of my "boys" via Zoom. It was in the middle of the first month of the pandemic and I think our little group was jonesing for some interaction with people we didn't share DNA. One of the things my wife says is that I need to be more social and she's not wrong. (Yet she thinks that my having a writing session once a month with my friend Brian is weird.) She's joked that I've been more social since the pandemic started.
Conversation from our little group chat moved from what we were drinking to what we've been cooking (lots of sourdough) to how we've been staying in some kind of shape (my complaining about walking stairs 3-5x a day to some of them running 7 miles a day). It was nice to talk to adults about adult things. (Again, not that I don't talk to my wife but sometimes you need more!) At one point in the conversations someone said something about writing and I griped around the malaise I was in related to my writing. This sparked something in one of my friends and he asked me perhaps the most terrifying question you could ever ask a writer: What motivates you to write?
I froze. I never have a good answer. Or at least the way that I feel.
Before I continue, confession time: I always feel that when I talk about writing with people, I bore them to tears. It's the reason I know that I'll never do a TED talk. It's not that I'm not passionate about writing or that I have what I think are interesting things to say about writing, it's just every ounce of self-loathing and self-doubt bubbles up slides on up to the front of my brain and makes me feel boring. (Comically, I don't have this problem with students.)
My friend asked the question earnestly. He doesn't know me very well so he hasn't lived through all my trials and tribulation of trying to be a famous author. The question really crippled me. I'm usually loquacious but I couldn't talk. A voice in the back of my head snickered and whispered, "Yeah, smart ass, what motivates you?"
I could say something poetic like the written word is the very marrow of our souls.
Nah, not me.
I could say that I hate blank paper and I need to fill it up with words.
Closer, but not quite there.
Because I want to be rich.
Nah.
"Because I can't not write," I answered. It's a stock answer for me. But it's also incredibly true. In the chat, one of my friends that's read my stuff commented that I'm a very good writer. I was embarrassed and humbled. I always feel weird talking about my writing out loud, it's really a sort if imposter's syndrome.
Imposter's syndrome is a psychological phenomenon in which people are unable to internalize and accept their accomplishment. This is me to a T about just about everything I do successfully in my life. I'm never satisfied when I cook and I'm constantly trying to get better, though my ribs are so good you can't talk loudly about them or the meat will fall off the bone. There's always a voice in the back of my head nibbling at any sense of accomplishment in my head. I always feel like when someone asks about my writing, I always feel like I can see their eyes glaze over as I'm talking. It's hard to see glaze on a computer screen. As I tried to expand on my answer, I heard the voice in my head, so I talked faster so I could think it before they could.
"You're a fraud."
Two agents, one abandoned the other I fired. A few very close calls with publishers.
"You talk a big game."
My friend that's read my stuff props me up by earnestly saying how good my writing is and I aw-shucked my way through that. When I said something about it being boring, they said that it's really interesting and that they can see my passion.
"They have to say that."
I don't know if they do or don't but it felt kind of good to talk about it out loud.
"Usually you have to pay $100 an hour for that, ding dong."
Imposter or not, I write because I can't stop writing, God have mercy on your soul.
"He won't, he made you a writer for Chris-okay, okay, I'll stop there."
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