Why do I want to write?

Why do I want to write?

A friend of mine asked me this question a couple of days ago. Surprisingly, I realized that it was a question I had never before considered.

It is a simple enough question. Quite an obvious one, really, given that I have a pile of How-to-write-fiction books on my desk at home, which I feel compelled to study in whatever free-hours, or free-minutes, I can scrape together each week.

I’ve been studying these books for about three years, now. And when I’m reading them, or writing something creative, I feel the most happy. Like I’m in a wonderful writing-bubble from which I don’t want to leave.

Writing has become my passion. And I hope it is a passion that I can continue for many years to come - even though I have started it relatively late in my life.

But is this desire to write something that I have only recently wanted to do?

I don’t think so.

A few months ago, I found some old diaries of mine - written when I was aged between 12 and 16 - in which I often talked about wanting to become a writer: either a novelist, a journalist, or both. Also, I recall discussing the idea of becoming a journalist with my year 10 history teacher, when I was 15.

So what happened, then? Why did I not write anything creative - or read any books about writing - for so many decades?

I think the answer is that I lost confidence.

Maybe, like many people who, as children, dream of living an adventurous or creative life when they grow up - the reality of establishing a career in those fields can seem too daunting, too risky, and too impractical when compared with more conventional and safe career-paths. Teachers, parents, and career-guidance counsellors also reinforce this notion. The exciting dreams we imagined for ourselves, when we were young, are then relegated to the status of hobbies-if-time-permits … or, more often, simply forgotten.

I recall my plans to become a writer began to falter during my middle high-school years. I rarely read books (I was a television addict and I played a lot of outdoor sports) - so, related to this, my vocabulary and my skills in grammar were poor. And when I tried to write stories, or express my thoughts in words on a page, I was stuck; it felt like a great wall stood between my mind and the paper. The words couldn’t get through. My ideas couldn’t translate themselves into the sentences, and paragraphs, and essays that I wanted them to. So, my English grades suffered, and I began to think that I could never write well.

Also, it didn’t help that my mother - who was top of the state in English in her final year at high-school - told me that it was her belief that some people are good at maths, other people are good at English, but almost no-one was good at both. ‘You, Robyn’ she said, ‘excel in maths and the sciences. English is not your strength and it probably never will be. So, work to your strengths … focus on the sciences.’

Sadly, I agreed with her.

It wasn’t my mother’s fault that I gave up on the idea of writing so early in my life. Thirty years ago, most people shared her view that people were either good at science subjects or English subjects - but not both. Students were expected to allocate themselves to one of those two groups … and stay there.

So, I decided that I was a 'science-student' and, by default, I would never be able to write.

These days, however, educators and psychologists are of the opinion that people who are intelligent tend to be generally above average in all of their subjects equally - both English and science subjects. The difference in the level of mastery obtained, in any given subject, is related mostly to the number of hours devoted to the study and practice of it. (Psychologists think that it takes around 10,000 hours to master any field of endeavour). And, this is where passion comes in. Those people who have a passion for something - be it knitting or physics - will more likely devote the hours of practice and study necessary to achieve a high degree of mastery.

So, it seems, passion is an important element in success. And, I think passion is probably innate. I think it is probably a part of our DNA - or our ‘soul’ - depending on the way you view life.

Maybe our childhood dreams, then, are less silly and immature than we might think. Maybe, as children, we are more open to our true self - more in touch with our deep desires and passions - before society and teachers and so many external factors change us.

During my teens, I continued to have an interest in doing something creative - although I had abandoned the idea of writing as impossible for me. I dabbled in other creative fields: painting, guitar, sewing, cooking … Yet, while each of these hobbies was fun, I felt no passion for any of them. Mostly, I was just vaguely annoyed at how time-consuming they all were.

So, one by one, I gave each of them up until I had no creative hobbies in my life.

Years passed and I gradually forgot that I had ever been a creative person. That part of my personality disappeared from my life … or at least from my conscious awareness.

My young adult life became completely consumed with medicine, long working-hours, and exhaustion: Six years of medical school, eight years of medical specialty-training, and 60 - 80 hour working weeks.

I would watch the seasons pass by through the hospital windows. The seasons belonged to a world, and a life, that was no longer mine. A world where I had once lived, free and happy. Now I only existed … suffocating within the sterile walls of my hospital-prison.

During those years, in my twenties, a voice in my head began to repeat, mantra-like, the words: ‘I’m dying inside.’

Over and over - from somewhere beneath my consciousness the voice grew louder and louder and more frequent and persistent, until I found myself voicing the words aloud sometimes: ‘I’m dying inside!’

All I knew was that my life was miserable. I hated where I was both physically and spiritually. I knew there was a part of myself which I had lost. But I couldn’t remember what it was. I just knew that it had made me happy so very long ago … in my childhood and early teens.

I did enjoy helping people. I still do. I’m not disappointed that I became a doctor. That path was correct for me, I think. And, along that path I met my soul-mate, and now my husband, David.

However, working as a medical specialist in the hospitals with no chance for my creative self to be expressed - I now see that that was the error. I should not have given that part of myself up so early.

Now I am aware that I am a person who likes the sciences - especially in a job where I can help people - but also I like the arts. Without the creative side to my life, I could never be happy or feel complete. I am both of those parts.

My father was an artist. He sketched with pencils and charcoals; he painted with oils; he would regularly draw funny cartoons at the dinner table in the evenings; and he attended art classes for many years during his spare time. He had a non-creative job, which paid the bills - but he allowed himself a creative outlet as well. In this regard, I am like my father. I have learned that without a creative outlet, my life is like a dull pencil-drawing with no colour; it is simply a series of events that follow one after the other with no deeper theme (or meaning), little passion, and far less joy.

My father had his sketches and paintings; for me, my paints are my words, and my drawings are my stories. My father and I both have creative souls, it is just the medium for that creative expression - our passion - which is different.


So, what happened, you might ask, that led me to escape my miserable hospital existence, rediscover my creative side, and find a happy balance between the two?

The answer to that is motherhood.

Becoming a mother, at thirty years of age, was a major turning point in my life. Motherhood forced my world to change.

Thank god!

Like the 'inciting event' of a story of fiction - where the protagonist, who has lived in the shadows of her own life, in the First Act, moves into the Second Act (the middle of the story) and comes out of the shadows to find her authentic self in the light - motherhood, for me, was the inciting event.

Motherhood forced me to slow down and stop working such ridiculously long hours. And, with a quieter life at home with my child, the 'scenes’ in my own continuing story were not solely dramatic ones, as they had been in the hospital, but often contemplative and reflective ones. Quieter and slower scenes in which I could rediscovered parts of myself which I had lost for a long time.

Before I continue, I will just mention here the psychological concept of shadows:  The idea of shadows, for characters in fiction-writing, is based on the theories of Carl Jung in analytical psychology:

Jung thought that our personalities exist both in the light and the shadow of our conscious awareness. The part of us about which we are fully conscious and aware - is the part in the light. However, the part which we are not consciously aware of - or only dimly aware - is the part in the shadow. This is our shadow selves (I’ve written a few blogs on this topic. Often we can get an idea of our shadow-selves in dreams, where the shadow is often represented in the form of a same-sex person of a similar age to us).


For me, my shadow self was my creative side and, more specifically, the part of me that wanted to write. Just like I’d dreamed of doing when I was young - before self-doubt and circumstance took me elsewhere for many years.

And, that is the reason for why I want to write: I need to.

Writing is part of who I am. As important to me as being a mother, a wife, and a doctor. I am all of those things at once. If any part were missing, I would feel incomplete and less happy.

I didn’t explain the reason for why I want to write in this degree of detail to my friend. I think I simply said that ‘I need to - unrelated to money or fame or readership or anything else except the fact that I would be so disappointed at the end of my life if I had missed out on putting words and stories on a page. Many pages, I hope, if I get the chance to live long enough'.

Speaking of which, a quick joke: Q: What would a writer do if told that he or she had only five minutes left to live? A: Type faster! Actually, maybe that’s not so much a joke. I think many writers have done just that.

My friend, Alastair Sarre, is a writer himself with two novels published already (Ecstasy Lake and Prohibited Zone). He is beginning his third novel this year, in whatever time he can manage to salvage from his busy life, like me.

He asked the ‘why’ question because he has been asked to answer that very question in a speech he’ll give soon. Like me he wants to say, ‘because I need to’. But that won’t fill the half hour presentation time he’s been given. Not unless he speaks  v-e-r-y  s-l-o-w-l-y …

However, yesterday, as fortune would have it, I found myself chatting with an old friend (someone I’ve known for about a decade - although I only see her a couple of times each year). We got to talking about her husband, the wonderful Australian artist, Peter Snelgar (you might like to Google images of his beautiful paintings. Many are landscapes of Kakadu National Park, and the outback in Australia).

Recalling the question put to me earlier in the week about ‘why I want to write’, I asked my friend ‘why did her husband want to paint?’ He has been a professional artist for most of his life and, even in his seventies now, he still paints constantly.

My friend explained briefly the story of her husband’s life - as a way to explain why he paints. I found it to be an interesting and inspiring story so, because I love stories, I will retell it here - as I remember it:


Peter Snelgar (Australian artist).

Peter became an artist because he felt that he had to.

Art chose him - not the other way around. Painting was a part of his soul, which meant, for him, it was a passion he chose with his heart - not his head. He didn’t need to think about it. He just knew it was something he needed to do. And he painted in spite of so many people telling him that he would never make a living from it.

During his childhood and early teens, Peter loved to draw pictures. He spent much of his time immersed in an artistic world with his pencils and charcoals. However, during his later years at high-school, his teachers warned him that he would never be able to earn a living from painting. Sadly, he believed them, and from that time he almost completely stopped drawing.

Peter married my friend when he was just 18 and she was 17. He continued to feel passionate about art, however, so while he would rarely draw any pictures himself, he often visited art-galleries, with his young wife, and he attempted to satisfy his love for art by admiring the great works of other artists.

One day, on one of their regular trips to a gallery, they came across a painting which would change Peter’s life forever. In his life-story, this was the inciting event bringing Peter into his Second Act.

‘It was a large piece,’ my friend explained, ‘created with a palette knife and thick oil-paint. Layers of it.’ She paused to reflect. She seemed to still see it before her, and she moved her arm to indicate how the paint was wiped across the canvas. ‘Peter loved it. He’d never seen anything like it. He told me that he was going to paint something just like it’.

Before this time, Peter had only ever drawn pictures. He had never before attempted a painting.

‘We walked from the gallery directly to the nearest art-store,’ she continued ‘and he bought everything he needed: The paints, the canvas, the brushes, an easel …’ 

Peter found that he loved painting and, with time, he found that he especially loved painting with acrylics.

Yet, he again almost gave up painting for good - in order to follow the advice given to him by his school-teachers when they told him that he would never be able to earn a living from painting.

Instead of painting professionally, Peter decided that he should get himself a ‘sensible and mature’ job in the building trade. So, for the remainder of his 20’s, and into his 30’s, he worked long hours in this line of work.

However, fate stepped in again when, in his mid-30’s, he had an accident at work, injuring his back and permanently preventing him from ever engaging in heavy manual work again.

Peter was qualified for no other line of work. He had a family to support  and a labouring job was now out of the equation. So, for the first time in almost 20 years, he decided to ignore all the nay-sayers in his life who had warned him against ever pursuing art as his profession - and he resumed painting. And, this time he decided to give it his all.

He chose, for his subjects, to paint all of the things he loved most in the world: His wife, initially, and then the beautiful Australian outback. The Kakadu National Park was his favourite location.

Peter went on to become an extremely successful, and wonderfully gifted, professional artist. He was able to well and truly support his family with his craft, and he found great happiness in his life both painting and travelling around Australia with his family.

My friend told me that painting is an intrinsic part of her husband’s life. Even now, in his seventies - and after painting hundreds of pictures over many decades - he cannot go even three days without picking up his brushes and painting again.

Peter knew that painting was the life he was meant to live - even when he was a child. It was etched into the blue-print of his life-path (which I think we all have - although we may or may not choose to allow ourselves to follow it - or even acknowledge it).

For Peter, painting is part of his personality. It is that deep. Not a choice, I think. It is more a personality trait.

And, looking at Peter Snelgar’s paintings (on Google), I can see his passion and love for his craft in every one of his beautiful paintings.

                                           *

This true story, about my friend’s husband, is why I love to tell stories. His story is inspiring and it validates our own experiences: Striving for what we sometimes know is true, even when other people tell us that we’re wrong.

We all have our stories.  As a doctor to tens of thousands of people, over the last 26 years, I have heard so many inspiring and amazing stories. I hear them from my patients - and other people I meet - every week.  Some are so amazing that if they were written into fiction - readers wouldn't believe them.  They would seem too far-fetched!

But that is why I need to write.

It will be interesting to hear what my friend chooses to tell his audience in his speech.

I must ask him to tell me that story some time.