I Want to go Back to Writing for Fun
Can someone tell my brain?
I started writing my first novel when I was twelve. Writing became a bit of a refuge for me, and so I kept the discarded school notebook where I wrote very well hidden. At the time, I was not interested in making money or becoming famous because of anything I wrote. I couldn’t even fathom it. Again, I was twelve. Every time I opened my notebook I got giddy with excitement at getting lost in the fantasy world I was conjuring one word at a time. I looked forward to discovering what adventures the heroine in my novel would be up to next.
Once I grew a little and got access to blogs on the internet, I was fascinated by the fact that so many others seemed to share my same passion for stringing words together just because. At the time, I think no one was really thinking about the potential of a post going ‘viral’ or of making huge amounts of money for their writing, especially other teens my age.
Fast forward to my university years, when blogging and social media had now become much of an industry, I started to realize that my writing had decreased in tandem with the increase of monetization and the importance of vanity measures like views, shares and likes. Admittedly, I was churning out 5+ essays a week for school so writing for fun became almost unthinkable at the end of the week when I felt I had no more words left in me.
And yet, I still made a few half-hearted attempts at starting blogs and continuing to write for fun. Whenever I found something too impactful, inspiring, curious or challenging, my response just seemed to come in the way of written pieces. But this was the time when thoughts like, “what if this goes viral?”, “what if it gets picked up by a publication?”, “could I make money writing this?” invaded my writing space. From then on, as much as I’ve tried to hide it, much of my writing has been tainted by the need to get approval from others.
In my quest, I started following many digital creators who were making strides in truly living off their writing or content creation. I then sought to emulate their steps, and since many of them seemed to be migrating to YouTube, Instagram or Podcasting, I did the same. I convinced myself these would only be tools to ultimately redirect people to my written blog because it is what I really wanted to do. Yet, these ended up taking all of my time and energy and the blog was slowly relegated to being an ethereal dream. Never mind the books I wanted to write — those were kicked to a faraway dimension. How would I ever find the time to write them if I needed to post at least once daily; manage Instagram stories; record, edit and publish podcast episodes; and find a way to make it on an already seemingly saturated YouTube? All of this on top of my school and work responsibilities, and all the other aspects that made me a functioning person in real-life.
Now, I know I am writing from a very particular position in which my livelihood does not depend on this (yet?). Perhaps when/if the first paycheck comes in, I might change my perspective. But, for the time being, I have a good 9–5 job and am working on going back to school for a Master’s program in a field I am really passionate about that is not related to internet writing or content creation. Nothing is really preventing me from writing for fun. Then why do I still struggle to do it?
We’ve recently been discussing rest with my church group. Everyone has different things that make them feel rested or refreshed. Writing is one of those things for me. And yet, whenever life gets busy, it is often the first one to go out the window. The problem, I discovered, is that I’ve struggled to see the ‘return on investment’ of writing for fun. Working out, studying, cooking, reading and even cleaning I could see the point of. But in my productivity-saturated mentality, writing with no objective in mind just doesn’t seem useful when there are so many other things to attend to.
Therein lies the problem then, doesn’t it? It does not have to be useful. It does not need to give me any money (nice as that might be). It does not have to change the world. It doesn’t even need to reach someone else.
Writing is such a noble art. It has a power I’ve yet to understand. Words tap something deep within us. They can ignite our imagination, help us teach each other and learn, they help us process things and heal, and they can build someone up (or tear someone down too). They are in short, the main vehicle through which we share our humanity and build bridges among each other.
Words are beautiful gifts that often have a far-reaching impact, more than we can even fathom in the self or in others. I’m not talking about views or likes. I’m talking about the power to externalize deep, intangible, and even eternal concepts and ideas that highlight our common threads as humans. That is why I am quite angry, both at myself and at the faceless ‘market’ for cheapening words and their expression in writing. For twisting and bending this art into something that can be manufactured in a sort of pseudo-intellectual assembly line.
Again, I must reiterate that this comes from an angle of someone who can do this as a hobby and has been swept in the unnecessary pressure from ‘the market.’ That is why I am asking, pleading, to my own brain to understand that our writing dynamics are different. For those whose livelihood depends on writing, the rules are different. In that case, it’s perhaps valid to see this art as a means to a very practical end, just like how I regard my excel workbooks — to the possible chagrin of my more numerically and spreadsheet-inclined friends.
I came across this beautiful piece on social and soul writing recently, and I couldn’t have said it better myself. The truth is we need both. Like many in my generation, I google literally everything. And thanks to those who perhaps do more ‘social’ writing, I’ve been able to expediently find helpful answers and advice. I wish that something I write one day helps someone in that way. However, for anyone who like me at 12 found refuge and inexplicable joy in simply grabbing a notebook and a half-empty pen, we owe our souls a bit of space to come out and create just because.
I still don’t know exactly how I will make my brain understand that. But this piece has been the first tug at a thread that has been becoming undone for years. For now, I will keep pulling until there’s no sweater left. Perhaps then I’ll be able to invite my heroine to come back out and play without pressuring her to make me famous or make me rich. Maybe then we’ll be able to finish the story we started all those years ago.
