October optional question: When you think of the term working writer, what does that look like to you? What do you think it is supposed to look like? Do you see yourself as a working writer or aspiring or hobbyist, and if the latter two, what does that look like?
For purposes of this question, I suppose the term working writer means writing for pay. But even though in my past life as a freelancer I earned money writing, I’d never consider the term “working writer” in that context, only.
Whether you’re paid or not, aspiring or a hobbyist, any good writing takes butt-in-chair dedication, which means hard, diligent work. Too many times, people who call themselves writers say, “but I haven’t been writing lately.” In that regard, a “working” writer could be someone employing the dedication to practice their craft regularly.
Truth be told, I’ve never cared about making money through writing. Simply put, more than anything else I do, the “work” of writing gives me life. And, as I have so profoundly rediscovered over the past five months, for me writing also means healing.
Regular readers know I lost my husband in April. He passed on a Thursday and by Friday, I was driven to sit down to write about him, a piece that turned into my May IWSG post. Even though I was a wreck (or maybe because I was), those words poured from me. Looking back on it, I can only think the goal to capture the essence of my Tim on a page kept me moving forward during that first, excruciating day without him.
After that, I struggled to accomplish any writing while navigating the crater that had formed in my life. I wandered the house, sometimes forcing myself to sit at the computer to get a couple of sentences out before drifting away. But those few sentences I managed told me something. During the brief spells in which I could focus, writing delivered me from my drowning self. Somehow, I came to know the work of writing, was—and is, going to save me.
Five months later, I’ve finished what I call “First Draft B,” of the very first novel I tried to write. Eight years ago, the original first draft was a disaster I didn't have the skills to fix. For lack of a better project, I’d resurrected it before things took a downward turn with Tim, early this year.
To distract myself from missing him, this summer I picked it up again. At first, I could only concentrate for a few minutes at a time. But after a while, the story captured me and I was not only able to fix issues with my newbie writing, I was also able to lose myself in the process.
May I state for the record that right now, losing myself in anything is a huge victory?
So, working writer. What does that mean? To me, it means getting up in the morning knowing there’s writing work to be done—each idea a reward, every sentence a blessing, all of it salvation, a means by which I attend to something other than grief. I may never be paid another penny for anything I write, but hell, yes, I’m a working writer. And grateful that, for the time being anyway, my writing appears to be working.
What does being a working writer mean to you?
