My good pal, Mike Consol, recently interviewed me for his “Novelist Spotlight” podcast.
Mike is a really, really, good journalist and can write some darn fine fiction too. He is the author of Hardwood, a novel about a young man finding his way in college who is the only white guy on the college’s basketball team.
Mike got me onto his podcast as we are colleagues. He edits a magazine in the US (Real Assets Adviser) that happens to be in same stall as the one I edit (Institutional Real Estate Europe).
If you want to hear me babbling on like some deranged baboon on the podcast then click on one of the four — yes four! — platforms that the interview is on below.
One of the questions Mike asks me is why do you write? Or why do you write at all, given how frustrating and unrewarding (certainly financially) it can be.
I can’t actually recall my answer accurately and I have no wish to listen back to the podcast as I hate the sound of my own voice, as most people do.
The question has got me thinking though. Do I really know why I write?
In some ways, it’s because I’ve got into the habit of doing it. And I get immense satisfaction, in fact, a sort of “high” when I have completed a work of fiction. It’s my own little creation. It’s unique. It’s new. I’ve almost dumped a little of myself onto paper and invited others to take a look. And I would be dishonest if I didn’t admit that part of me wants one of my novels to become a runaway success. Of course I do.
OK, so that partially explains why I do it now. But why did I start writing?
Initially, because I enjoyed it. I really threw myself into creative writing homework at school. I still remember having to read out a short story to my class as my teacher thought it was a decent piece of fiction. The opening line was “Dad was drunk.” At university, I tried to write because I wanted to be J.D. Salinger. So, again, being honest, because I wanted fame and fortune. Oh, and I wanted to be cool. Super cool.
But that doesn’t keep you motivated. Not when day-to-day life takes over, and you need to earn money and all the rest of the boring stuff that comes with adulthood. And not when you fail at the first couple of hurdles.
In my thirties, when I started writing seriously, it was because it was something I wanted to do. I had a desire to say something through the written word. And it was fun. I’d returned to what originally motivated me as a 10-year-old. And if you want to keep doing something, then it probably means that you have some talent, or aptitude for whatever it is you’re doing. Otherwise you wouldn’t do it, right? (Anybody who mentions Eddie the Eagle in the comment box gets blacklisted)
And that is all it is. I enjoy writing, nothing else. Simple. Honest to God.
Progress report:
I’ve written the blurb for Through open doors. Which means I’m going to go onto Fiverr (a website where creative freelance types can sell their services) and get my trusted book cover designer to get working on the front and back covers.
Man who wore hats is at 36,260 words. Hey, it’s been a busy couple of weeks, what can I say? Although that doesn’t quite chime with my chat with Mike where I told him that want to become a prolific novelist. Not going to do that if my progress stalls like this too often. Must do better.
Take it easy. And thanks for reading.