AM I A WRITER FOR ALL THE WRONG REASONS?

(Like Fame, Clicks and Attention)

Whenever people ask me how I knew I wanted to be a writer, I have an adorable anecdote locked and loaded. I attended a summer program at Williams College when I was 15 and took a writing course there. At some point during the session, my teacher, whose name and face is now lost to me, told me that I could be a writer for a living.  Obviously, I knew some people did that, but as a type-A daughter of a lawyer I didn’t realize that possibility could apply to me. But since that summer, I knew what I wanted to do with my life.

Now that it is twenty years later, I only remember the memory of that exchange. I no longer have any sense of why writing appealed to me so much. Ever since my screenwriting program in college—another pivotal moment in my career ambitions becoming a reality—I have proudly stated that I actually hate the process of writing. When people seem surprised to hear this, I’ll hit them with my favorite unattributed quote: actors love to act, painters love to paint, and writers love having written. I felt a strange sort of misplaced pride that I didn’t enjoy this thing that was supposedly my greatest passion in life. I thought anyone who liked to write couldn’t be very good at it, so my distain meant I wasn’t delusional about my abilities.

Writing is hard. It is solitary and arduous, and I almost never lose myself in a burst of creativity. But when I was first starting out, I at least felt like I had many things to say. There were topics I wanted to explore and personal experiences that I could mine. I felt I had a clear “voice” and a strong point of view. I don’t feel that way anymore.

I used to force myself to write a joke a day on Twitter. And I could do it without trying that hard. Now it often takes me weeks or months to think of something funny enough to share. I feel as though all the good stories and goofs have been sucked out of me and I don’t know what remains.

Actually, I do know. And it’s attention.