A while ago, I was hired as a writer somewhere, and I stupidly didn't tell people my experience, so that when my writing wasn't stellar, I'm pretty sure it gave them a reason to despise me. One person asked me if I had experience doing that kind of writing, and I stupidly said "no." I had done similar kind of writing, but I didn't bother to say that. I just said I didn't have the experience. Why, I have no idea. I think I was in the mode of "don't bother to boast because things have changed for the worse in general, and there's no point in scrounging up some confidence when talking to people about my background." I should have said that I did, indeed, have experience elsewhere, which was totally true, because I'd just come from a similar place.
Fast forward to my current fiction-writing attempt, which has resumed due to my underwhelming social life, and one thing that really drives me is that I'm going to prove those naysayers wrong. While they were thinking I probably shouldn't have been hired (even though I passed a writing test, have a writing portfolio, and have done a lot of online writing over the past several years), I was thinking I could try to achieve more.
But after successfully doing Nanowrimo and thinking that I have the motivation to continue churning out words, I ended up petering out. I was working a lot, which is a common excuse that lots of people make, but people who are motivated to write do it any chance they can. I was doing that for a bit, writing early, during breaks, going to a writing group, but then life took over and my will to write faded into the distance. And when I had some time during the holidays, I still had some work to get done, plus chores, plus lots of sleeping because I'd been sleep-deprived, which messed up my system.
Then I got into the usual thinking that I've been in before, in addition to scores of other people: what's the point? Should I keep working towards something that might not happen, that will probably never happen? I can write here, interview people for some podcasts, read books, get stuff done. Basically, there are many attainable goals, but writing a novel is an impossible one. I'm goal-oriented, but trying to write a decent story, then revising it, then getting an agent, then getting published, then revising again, then trying to sell are all extremely difficult goals. It's very satisfying to attain a goal and to be rewarded in some way, but to keep working with no end in sight? Why?
I've talked to people who've barely gotten any writing done, and I think I know why. When we're operating in the real world, there are things in front of us to get done or to overcome or to figure out. Our minds are on the level of reality, trying to make sense of it all and reaching constant conclusions. But fiction causes us to pull away from that reality into a world that yes, is satisfying because we're creating it and there are no jerks to tell us what to do or to demand anything from us, but is never-ending. Writing fiction causes us to dream as well, hoping for an end to our quest, for finding an audience that will react to what we're doing. Plus, if a writer gets other deals, such as movies or TV or translations or whatever, then their work is really rewarded, and they can live a better life and have a larger circle of friends, etc. They can do readings and interviews and go to cool events. But that's only for the very select few. The rest may get published but don't get noticed, or they never get published are are working in a vacuum, full of hope and frustration.
Some (or many?) people have a desire to express themselves creatively and to display their unique voice because much of what we do is a suppression of who we really are. Basically, if I could make a living being myself, that would be fantastic. But very few people get that chance, so I, like millions of others, need to negate who we are or just function in the parameters that others set for us to survive. So writing (or other artistic endeavors) is a way to fly in the space we choose, and despair can result from the toil and eventual difficulty of making the pursuit more than just an inconsistent occurrence.
Anyway, now that I'm writing this, it makes me realize that I've been operating in reality too long. Some weird and disappointing interactions with people are weighing me down, the winter is cold and dark, the deadlines are constant, and life seems dry. Fiction makes it more interesting, like we're entering a doorway to another world which is run by us. Even just blogging my thoughts makes me feel like I'm carving out a space that I don't usual occupy elsewhere. I'm sure if I were super-successful, someone would ask me to write my thoughts about a subject, and it would be satisfying to know that others are reading it and I'm being acknowledged in some way. But at least I'm doing something instead of just feeling dissatisfied and dejected.
And even though I've been struggling to stay motivated and to try for something that may never happen, I've still managed to write over 200 pages of the novel I'm working on, and that is in addition to another quick draft I did of another story for Nanowrimo, which was 50,000 words. So instead of feeling sorry for myself or doubtful, I should be proud because of what I've been able to get done. And right now, I'm reading through what I've written so far, and it doesn't seem like such a disaster, though editing and more writing are necessary.