W from Brisbane asked me in the comments to that last post what it was I liked about writing. Was it the writing itself? Was it finishing? Was it the gold-plated hovercraft and the Playboy Bunnies? Honestly, it made me stop for a moment — I hadn’t given it much thought for a while.
When I started writing, I guess I had two things driving me. One was that I did like telling stories. I always had, even as a kid, and it seemed natural to put them down on paper to share them with people. But beneath that was another need I felt for — I don’t know — autonomy, I guess. I’ve always sensed that I wouldn’t fit very well into other people’s organisations and structures.
When I worked for Defence in Canberra after finishing my degree and not really being sure what I wanted to do, I had the experience of moving around through different areas of the department while they tried to find a fit for me. And the only one that really fit was the Office of Special Clearances, where I was given little assignments and sent out into the world without supervision. I would go find things out, and I would bring them back to the office and tell the old spies — and it was great fun. I really enjoyed it, but I think that was because it was effectively working on my own, if not for myself.
After a couple of years faffing around like that, I knew I wasn’t cut out for an office job. That’s why, when I decided to write for a living, I didn’t bother applying for a cadetship with a newspaper. That would have meant The Courier-Mail, and that would have been the end of my life. I decided I’d freelance for magazines.
But that was all a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, and my motivations then aren’t really my motivations now. There have been times when I haven’t enjoyed writing, but they were largely a function of me taking on jobs simply to pay bills, or that terrible year of clinical depression, where I just forced myself to walk into the office every day and stare at the screen. I think really the only thing I got done that year was grinding out a column every Friday because the subscribers had already paid me for it.
It’s taken me at least 30 or 40 years — with ten years of pretty intense reflection and adjustment and iteration at the end — but I’ve finally found a way of writing that means I look forward to coming into my office every day, even if it’s because I still have bills to pay. I think it was Hunter S. Thompson who said something like, “Writing is a terrible grind if you have to do it every day, or else the car gets repossessed.” They weren’t his exact words, but he was reflecting on how necessity, particularly economic necessity, can suck the joy out of anything.
But I do still get a lot of joy out of writing, so much and so frequently that it surprises me. Only yesterday, I was hugging myself and chortling happily at a couple of lines of dialogue I’d written in World War 3.3. I’d sent Elvis off to Parris Island for Marine Corps boot camp, and of course he was being screamed at Full Metal Jacket-style by the drill instructors. I spent maybe an hour or so in the afternoon working out all of their screams of abuse. There was one in particular which I tweaked, and it just read so well to me after the tweak that I had to step back from the screen (I’m still using a standing desk, so I didn’t trip over the chair) and just stare happily at what I’d done.
I remember actually saying to myself when I did that, “I haven’t enjoyed writing something as much as this for a long time.” (Yes, I talk to myself, because I’m on my own all day, so that form of madness has crept up on me over the years). But as soon as I said it, I realised I was lying to myself, because I’d had exactly the same experience writing those spy romances earlier in the year. I banged out a couple of scenes and was so pleased with them that I had to step back from the keyboard and the screen for a moment just to enjoy myself.
So I guess that’s the thing I enjoy most, that weird, wild happiness that comes from creating something that wasn’t there just a few moments ago, and knowing that a few people at least will enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.