Something has me feeling philosophical.

Maybe it’s because I’ve finished the first draft of a novel I’ve been working on and have “shelved it” for a couple of weeks to marinate.

In last week’s post, I wrote about a writer friend who is thinking of giving up writing because she’s tired of knocking on doors that won’t open.

I’ve been thinking about that.

A lot.

I don’t know what the ratio is of people who write AND get published to people who write and NEVER get published.

I’m not sure I want to know the answer to that.

But I do know that I’ve knocked on many doors over the course of the past five years since I got serious about my writing.

I have yet to receive a reply from an agent asking me for more pages.

I feel ashamed just saying that.

It’s kind of like being asked to reveal your age or your true weight.

But I’m tired of pretending to myself or anyone else (and am I really fooling anyone?) about the status of my writing “career” by keeping quiet about it.

I always cringe when someone, upon hearing I’m a writer, follows up with, “Oh, are you published?”

As if that’s the only thing that will give my writing credibility.

Or they might ask, “What do you write?”

When I tell them I write for children, I quite often hear: “Oh, how sweet.”

It’s the verbal equivalent of a pat on the head.

Or someone will tell me they know of someone who also writes, “You two should meet.”

Maybe.

Maybe not.

And why specifically?

My mother was an artist for most of her life.

She painted and did pottery and made jewelry.

She was very good.

She took her pieces to craft shows and did fairly well.

And then she got tired of schlepping her tables and cash box and lighting and artwork to the shows—return on investment
not being very high.

But she still created paintings and pottery and jewelry.

I remember when my aunt (my mother’s sister) and uncle were visiting her.

My aunt and mother were in her studio creating, making, having a great time.

My uncle walked in and asked, “Why are you doing all this if you’re not going to sell it?”

My mother answered without hesitation, “Because it’s a hoot.”

God love her.

Are our creative endeavors only validated if we make money off them? (I ask myself, too.)

After learning my friend is tired of knocking on doors that won’t open, I’ve been thinking, is that the only reason we’re writing?

I suppose some of us are writing for that carrot.

But what about doing it just because it’s fun?

I’m going to keep writing because it’s a hoot.

That being said, if any agents are reading this post and want to take a look at my work, I’m happy to share.
😊
Until next week,

~ Gail

Countdown: 40 more weeks of 2024

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