I sometimes (read: often) wonder about the mental state of someone who would spend years putting their emotional hangups out there for everyone to see (and yes, whether you like it or not you do come out in your writing), spend more years trying to sell said emotional hangups, and get upset when they can’t. Spend years trying to find readers, polishing and working, sending out a query again and again, fighting for a narrowing slice of an ever-expanding pie.
Writers are just weird. I guess that means I’m weird, because I love it. The writing is just a part of it, although that’s the part I love the most. I also love getting out there and meeting other writers. I enjoy the blogging (obviously, I do enough of it), and helping other people move toward their own goals. Oddly, I also enjoy the editing.
Other people move toward the same goal in other ways. We all take differing paths toward publication, through all the swamps and twists, but for some reason we all continue.
Every one of us believes we have something to say, something that others want to hear. We all believe that our voice is the best way to say it, and that “If we write it, they will come.” A species of narcissism, perhaps, but I really don’t care. If I were to lose both hands in some freak accident I’d get someone to set up my computer for voice commands, and if my voice was gone I’d go insane listening to all the voices in my head–and no outlet for them.
I will continue writing until they nail shut my coffin, with me screaming and pounding on the lid. “Hey! I still have things to write! Let me out of here!”