I asked myself this question a few weeks ago. I was doing some soul searching and trying to figure out why I engaged in certain behaviors and actions. The goal was to help me heal from past traumas and figure out the best way to live my life.
When I answered this question, I discovered that I had been writing to create connections with other people.
On the surface, this sounds like a noble reason. I mean, who doesn’t want to create connections?
We’re human. We thrive on being there for one another.
But my reasons actually went deeper than this.
It wasn’t just about connections with readers. It was about being validated. I needed my audience to let me know that I had worth because they enjoyed my stories. If they didn’t understand me or like me, I was wasting my time.
I had visions of becoming best friends with my readers. I imagined that we would spend countless hours chatting about books and life online. They would tell me how wonderful I was, and I would know that I hadn’t wasted my time writing novel after novel.
Perhaps we would even meet in public. They would throw their money at me, which in turn would attract the interest of Hollywood, and then more people would be able to engage with and enjoy my stories.
My entire being became wrapped up in my writing. I did it to give myself meaning, a reason to get out of bed in the morning, a voice that people wanted to listen to. If strangers thought my books were wonderful, their acceptance let me know that I was an amazing and worthy person.
I’ve met many, many extraordinary readers who have enjoyed my stories and have sent me some of the most heartwarming and encouraging messages, but I found myself disillusioned with the process. When I didn’t make millions of dollars on books sales or have directors breaking down my door to turn my works into movies, I felt like a failure.
I felt like I had missed my connections.
I wasn’t being validated for my writing—my existence was meaningless.
So, I retreated. I disappeared from the world. The thought process at the time was that I would show everyone what they were missing. Once I was gone, there would be void. Readers would realize how amazing I truly was and beg me to come back. I would look down on the world and smirk, make them beg for my stories—and for me.
As you can imagine, that wasn’t how it happened. Most of the world didn’t even notice I was gone. A few incredibly kind and caring readers sent me messages, but they didn’t beg for me to keep writing. They didn’t feel the emptiness in their souls.
And they didn’t need to.
I was the one with the empty soul. I was writing for the wrong reasons.
My soul-searching journey is far from over, but I have discovered some truths along the way, some of which have been incredibly hard to deal with. When I discovered that I was writing so that I could be validated and know that I had a place in this world, it became apparent why the practice left me feeling empty and disappointed. There is never enough praise in the world to make me feel like I’ve “made it.”
I won’t lie: there’s something magical about having a reader tell me that they loved my story and that it spoke to them on many different levels. It’s definitely nice to connect in that way. But I can’t expect my readers to validate my existence and to encourage me to keep writing. I’m the only one who can do that.
It took me a long time to come to this conclusion and to find my passion and desire to write again. I had to not only change my thinking about writing, but also my behaviors and actions toward it as well. I may never become a millionaire or see my books turned into movies, but that shouldn’t stop me from writing them.
I probably won’t become best friends with readers and spend hours online talking about how wonderful I am. And that’s okay. I can still create a connection with them. We can still form a bond, and my writing can be the catalyst. But it won’t make or break my desire to write if it doesn’t happen.
Figuring this out was actually incredibly freeing. I’ve one again found joy in creating stories; it no longer feels like a chore.
I’ll continue to write, but I doubt I’ll ever try to publish in the same way I’ve done in the past. I’m okay with putting my stories on Wattpad for readers to read for free. It doesn’t break my heart if no one actually reads them. I don’t need anyone’s approval or validation.
Now when I ask myself why do I write, I can honestly answer: for the sheer joy of it.
