To Write or Not to Write

By Adrienne Easton

To Write or Not to Write …

That’s the question I’m currently considering.

There’s another question too—am I a writer or a person who writes?  I think there’s a distinction—like, I can make coffee but I’m not a barista; I can dress a skun knee but I’m not a nurse; I sing but I am definitely not a singer.

Perhaps I should ponder my writing journey to find the answers.

I’ve always loved the sounds and feeling of words on the written page—being taken away to another place as the reader, learning new things about the world, and, when I write, how to engage a reader in my stories, best practices for editing, finding a community of friends who write and understand the personal challenges faced …

I have treasured memories of reading under the covers late into the night thinking my mum didn’t know, being taunted by my brother for crying over Black Beauty, and writing poetry to help me navigate the awkwardness of teenage years. I remember the lovely local librarian, Miss Crew, who stamped the book cards and wrote my name in the back of those I borrowed, who made no comment when I choose a Famous Five book yet again.

Although I’ve continued to write variously over the ensuing years, I came to more serious writing when I chose a Master of Creative Writing (online). I needed to do further study to reinstate my teaching registration. The course took me five years and by the time I graduated, there was no longer a need for me to return to the classroom. I had space to continue to write the stories I began during study.

Since then, I have written and published five books plus an anthology of poetry that sits somewhat obscurely in the Ingram Spark platform waiting for me to decide if I am game enough to cast it out into the world. I printed just enough copies for my children for Christmas.

By the time I completed my fifth book, I needed a break from the process of writing and editing and publishing and marketing. Helen Garner, after releasing a book that took her seven years to write, was asked if she was now writing her next book and what was it about. She responded, ‘If you must know, I’m planning to lie on my bed for twelve months.’ Well, tempting as it was, I didn’t quite do that. I took up pottery instead.

It’s been over a year since I published The Weddings of Winifred Weatherall. I have manuscripts and ideas waiting on my computer and in notebooks or closeted somewhere in the back of my brain. But I just can’t seem to stir myself to open the drawers and take them out, do all the gap-filling, rearranging, stitching and mending. Guilt about these dormant, neglected seeds sometimes creeps upon me—the poor things lying in wait for me to water them. Is it wasteful not to grow them into the light …

How serious am I about writing? That’s the question. Does it matter if I don’t ever birth any books out into the world again. When I read that there are 150,000–300,000 books published in the world every month, I am overwhelmed. Am I kidding myself that my one more book will even last a day submerged under the weight of all the others?

Don’t get me wrong. I believe in the written word. I believe in my books. I believe I write safe stories that share grace in the pages, that bring hope, make a difference, provide guidance …

To return to my question—am I a writer or a person who writes? Some would say that because I have published, I am a writer, an author. Ok, maybe I am. But do I have to keep on writing and publishing to continue to call myself that? What if I don’t publish any more books, and interest in and sales of mine drop, so that they languish in the depths of wherever neglected books go. Writer or person who writes? Does the answer really matter to me anyway? It is just a label after all.

Because I have arrived at the conclusion that writing to me is a hobby (albeit an expensive one when publishing is involved). A hobby rather than an income earning profession. I don’t need or desire to make a living from it. That would be a pressure for me which would diminish the pleasure of the linking of words, the rhythm of phrases, finding a new word that fits perfectly into place, mulling over and resolving what I truly believe about a particular idea, the discovery of something about my protagonist that surprises and delights me…

A hobby is something that so absorbs us that we forget about time and place. How often have you been so engrossed in your writing that you suddenly realise, ‘Oh, I feel cold. I should put some warmer clothes on, but I’ll just finish this thought first,’ and then time ticks on and you realise much later that your toes are numb and your shoulders are around your ears. Hobbies do that. They capture our attention in the place of creation.

They are activities that bring us pleasure and enjoyment as we learn new skills, a source of emotional nurturing and refreshment, and source of problem solving that is not arduous but rather brings a sense of accomplishment, gratification and value of self.

I will continue to write and perhaps even publish again … when I am ready, because I also paint and make prints, sew, spin, knit, garden, play with clay … all for the pleasure and growth these activities bring. Perhaps I cannot title myself a painter, printmaker, seamstress, spinner, knitter, potter, or even writer. But that’s fine by me.