I try to resist making New Year’s resolutions, but while running on New Year’s Day, I was not immune to thoughts of who I am versus who I want to be. It hit me that it would be good for me to focus on acceptance this year, but not in the way you might expect.
You might think that I’d work toward acceptance of some aspect of my life over which I have no control: the publishing world, the agenting world, how soon Homeland returns for Season 4. But I’m not talking about accepting the things that bug me, but which I cannot change.
Lately, I’d been wondering: what is the point of writing fiction when there’s no clear result? I don’t know why I’m so results-oriented. Maybe there’s some deep-seeded Puritan DNA inside me that demands concrete, practical results from what I do. For whatever reason, I fight with my need to write because spend a lot of time writing, but I don’t make money from it.
The thing is —I crave the act of writing and I feel good when I’m writing.
The choice of whether to spend time writing fiction or not could be more complicated than that, but does it need to be? I’m sure I will always struggle with rejection (something I cannot control) and with balancing the time spent on writing against the time needed to do everything else that keeps my life working (something I can control), but perhaps it’s time to stop questioning whether or not writing deserves space in my life.
This call to arms, you see, is not a raising of swords. It’s an act of embracing what I do well, rather than keeping it locked out in the cold until it agrees to pay up. It’s time to accept my gifts and to stop wondering: what’s the point? After all, does a gorgeous sunset have a point? Some experiences bring us joy. And that is point enough.