Writing is like prostitution. First you do it for love, and then you do it for a few close friends, and then you do it for money. Jean-Baptiste Poquelin (1622-1673) French Actor, Playwright and Writer—Stage name MOLIERE.
Here’s a question with which to search our souls. At which stage of writing am I?
This mischievous quotation by Moliere catches the eye because it highlights an eternal truth. If we write, we are at one of those three stages. When the Muse seizes us, she forces us to the pen and paper or the keyboard, often both. We frequently begin to write about something we love, or in some cases to exorcise a demon that has perched on our shoulders from time immemorial. We write initially to put our thoughts in readable form. The next impulse is to share them. In the beginning, we ask only those close to us to read them, never daring to disclose something so personal to casual friends or strangers.
Once however, in the grip of these inexorable influences, we take up the self-imposed challenge. Driven beyond the borders of our own reticence, we sally forth, asking distant and hyper-critical strangers to read, evaluate, and dare I say, publish this fragile child born of our imagination and hard work. We are driven then, to suffer the bitter slings and arrows of rejection, even outright scorn. But now with the bit in our teeth, we plunge ahead. Revise, rewrite, polish, edit, and revise again. Will anyone, at last, see the merit in our art? The joy, however, of acceptance is unequaled. It is an affirmation of our very souls. Every moment dedicated to assuage that burning desire that flames within has been justified. Finally, should someone actually pay us for our cherished work of prose or poetry, we are truly fulfilled. Then, alas, back to the keyboard, how can we stop now?
