Why We Write: Artistry, Identity, and Legacy
By Barbara Linn Probst | October 18, 2023 |
Writing a book is hard. So is getting published, promoting a book, and becoming successful as a writer. Then why do so many of us want to do it?
Our reasons can be complex and difficult to articulate, even to ourselves—fluid, intimate, brave, embarrassing. At one moment, we may feel driven or called, as if not writing isn’t an option; at another moment, we may wonder why in the world we’re still at it. My own reasons have gone through cycles over the years, depending on what I was writing (a book for parents of out-of-the-box kids, academic articles, poetry, journals, contemporary fiction), its place in the context of my life, and my secret (or not-so-secret) hopes.
I can hardly remember a time when I wasn’t writing something. I wrote my first “book” when I was eight. It was called At Home with Us and depicted the adventures of sisters Tessa and Rita Rine. As you can see, it even had illustrations!
Prior to switching (back) to fiction, I was a qualitative researcher trying to bring the stories to life of people who were struggling with mental illness. As I was preparing to launch my first novel, my researcher-self got interested in finding out why people wrote—specifically, why they wrote novels, so I posed two questions to my community of writers: “Why do you write? And why are you writing this particular book?”
The questions came from more than intellectual curiosity; I longed to know where I fit in this new landscape and whether my confused, contradictory dreams and fears were “normal.” I heard from nearly fifty people, pondered what they told me, and published an essay about what I learned. The essay also included some of my own reflections.
In the four-and-a-half years since I asked the question, I’ve published three novels—in fact, today is the one-year anniversary of my third book—so I began to wonder if my perspective had changed. Thus, this new article.
First, a recap of what I learned in early 2019.
The responses of my fellow writers pointed to three primary reasons that I called artistry, identity, and legacy. They’re not mutually exclusive, of course; people can write for more than one reason, or for different reasons at different times. As one person noted: “Sometimes it’s to reach out for connection with others, and sometimes it’s for my eyes only.”
Artistry: the act of writing
Writing is both art and craft. Like painting, sculpture, or musical composition, writing allows us to create something new; like acting or playing an instrument, it can also allow us to express our creativity through a vehicle that someone else has provided. Language, rather than colors or sounds, is our tool. Writing is art because it can evoke emotions and meanings beyond the words themselves. It’s also craft because it requires skills that have to be learned and practiced.
As with all forms of artistic expression, people write because they have something they want to convey—a vision, a passion. One person told me: “It’s a compulsion, brought on by these characters ‘knocking on my imagination’s door’ screaming to be let out!” Writing is an outlet, a release. The story or characters won’t take no for an answer.
For some, it’s not so much a particular story clamoring to be written as it is the more generic opportunity for self-expression and exploration, “because it’s such a thrill to compose and play and weave and see what happens.”
There’s a blend of the personal and the impersonal in the artistic process—the joy of the creative experience (a personal pleasure), and the sense of being a channel or vessel through which a story makes itself known (being “called,” in service of the story).
In short, people write for the meaning they derive from the act of writing.
Identity: the state of being a writer
Being a writer is an identity: it’s who I am (or want to be) and where I belong. “Writing stories is all I’ve ever wanted to do,” and “It’s just who I am.” As one person put it: “it just feels like my identity. I know, I know, you’re not supposed to BE your work, but I’m not sure how to separate it.”
Others wrote about the experience of community, of finding one’s tribe. “I have met ‘my people’ in the writing community. A joyful side-effect of writing a book!” Being a member of a community—claiming a place, asserting one’s right to the identity that accompanies membership—can evoke doubt as well as connection. “Do I have the right to call myself a writer? Am I good enough?” Writers, regardless of what they’ve accomplished, sometimes speak of what’s called imposter syndrome—feeling unworthy and afraid of revealing one’s inauthenticity.
Imposter syndrome is a difficult subject. We tell ourselves not to “fall into that trap,” yet there’s no objective criterion for calling oneself a writer, no license or test, the way there is for calling oneself a doctor; anyone can self-declare a writer identity. While the status of “being published” might seem like a reasonable criterion, that too is a controversial matter and beyond the scope of this essay. In fact, there are times when the focus on publication actually detracts from the sense of identity as a writer. One person confessed that, after achieving the longed-for goal of publication, “it took me years to come back to the joy of rediscovering the sacred place of writing.”
In short, people write to embrace an identity.
Legacy: the gift of having written
While there is a deep fulfillment in the experience of putting ideas and images into words—an experience that’s complete in itself—most writers do want their work to be read. Writing is restorative, healing, profoundly satisfying to the writer herself. But it’s relational too, an act of generosity and connection.
Through writing, we hope to touch others; we want to make a difference, to be remembered. For some, especially memoirists, there can be the hope that their journey of survival will help others who may be going through something similar. For others, relating a family history, even if fictionalized, can carry the hope that the story isn’t lost, especially if it’s a story about an individual or group that might not be able to tell it themselves. We want to bear witness or bring a forgotten era to life.
In short, people write so they can leave something behind.
Artistry, identity, legacy, or a combination of all three?
Whether writing is an item on a late-in-life bucket list, an unfulfilled longing from childhood, or something that’s always been part of our lives—we feel its summons. We need to get the stories out of our heads and onto the page, to reach others and be read. As one person put it, the urgency to write “sometimes scares me, and at other times gives me wings.”
What’s striking to me, revisiting these responses, is what people did not say. No one told me: “I write because I want to sell a lot of books, see my name on a The New York Times list, win awards, get five-star reviews, get hundreds of loves on my social media posts.” They didn’t even say: “I write because I want to visit book clubs and do a lot of bookstore events.”
Certainly, we’re thrilled when we hit one of these markers; it’s human to want them and to be happy if we achieve them. Yet they’re really just proxies for the profound satisfaction of doing something that feels personally important, and of reaching people who find meaning in what we’ve offered.
As I reflect on all this, nearly five years down the “novelist road,” I find that my reasons for writing haven’t really changed. I fall mostly in the artistry camp. I love the process. Being in that porous, receptive, enchanted world when I feel like a conduit for a story is one of the best things I know.
Another of the “best things I know” is when I hear from someone I will probably never meet—sometimes years after one of my books was published—who tells me how much the book meant to her. I want to tell her: “I wrote it for you.”
That’s where the question in the title of this piece takes me.
I wrote it for myself, because I had to. And I wrote it for you.
What about you? Why do you write?
Barbara (she/her) is an author of contemporary women’s fiction living on an historic dirt road in New York’s Hudson Valley. Each of her acclaimed novels (Queen of the Owls, 2020; The Sound Between the Notes, 2021; and The Color of Ice, 2022) was a medalist for prestigious national awards, including the Sarton Award for Contemporary Fiction, the Independent Book Publishers Award, the Hawthorne Prize, and the Nautilus Award for Fiction. Her fourth novel, Roll the Sun Across the Sky, launches in May 2025 and has received stellar advance praise. Barbara has also published more than 80 articles on the craft of writing and the writing life. She has a PhD in Clinical Social Work and has been a therapist, teacher, researcher, and advocate for out-of-the-box kids and their families. When not writing, she’s a serious amateur pianist and a traveler to spots from Iceland to the Himalayas. Learn more on her website .
[coffee]
Good morning Barbara, after my first husband’s suicide, my son wrote something in his college admission essay that I found chilling: he said that it didn’t matter enough his father was gone. That’s why he wanted to go into the classical vocal arts—he wanted to do something that would make people feel deeply, and in so doing, he would live on within them.
Damn. Kids.
Well I’m no opera singer. But in his words I recognized immediately that I am a legacy writer, through and through. It’s also why I teach writing and help others develop their work. I want my life to be marked by more than a tombstone. I want a part of me to live on within others. I want my life to have mattered.
Thank you for posing this important question, as our purpose will see us through the inevitable challenges that greet us along the way.
Thank you for this, dear Kathryn. Yes. I think it is the central question. Everything else—character arcs, word counts, cover designs, Amazon reviews, book clubs, etc etc—emanates from this essential question.
Thanks much, Barbara, for guiding us so kindly and clearly into asking this basic question. What resonated most with me was your Artistry description: “There’s a blend of the personal and the impersonal in the artistic process—the joy of the creative experience (a personal pleasure), and the sense of being a channel or vessel through which a story makes itself known (being “called,” in service of the story).” For me, the story itself seems such a bigger and higher thing, far above and beyond me in invisible yet quite personal reality — an “out-there” presence that keeps pressing within me to birth it into visible and readable form, to bring forth the right words and images, in the right order, with the right rhythms and sound and clarity. I accept that discovering all this rightness is a greater task than I’m capable of, purely through my own inventions; ultimately, perfection in this is probably not attainable, but the continuing pressure keeps me trying my best until I sense it’s time to let go.
What beautiful reflections! Yes, yes. A story is “far above and beyond me” yet very intimate and close. It asks me to do what I didn’t think I could, for its sake. It’s like loving someone, no? I’m remembering a wonderful essay by A.E. Orage called “On Love,” in which he said that loving someone is wishing the best for the beloved, regardless of whether it benefits you personally. I feel that being a writer is like that … thank you for helping me come to that today,
Hi Barbara, in the early days of my writing, I referred to my poetry, articles, and eventually longer works as “the joyful burden.” Yes, I had family and friends to share my life, my fears and sorrows, my successes…but there is something so permanent about writing, seeing what you have created on the page. I wrote my first piece in fourth grade. It was about an avalanche! I truly believe that my desire to write is why I’m a confirmed reader, majored in English and later earned my nursing degree. WHEN YOU READ, the world opens up. And doesn’t reading create in the reader a desire to respond? We can’t always reach the author, and before the internet, that was impossible. So instead, we reach within ourselves. Reading is the spark to writing. And so I responded today. Thanks for your post.
Thank you for making the connection for us between reading and writing! I feel the same way. It’s like playing music: the sound is completed, fulfilled, when it’s received by someone else. So yes, we write for those who will read our words. And, in turn, we are moved to respond to what we read. That’s one of the many important reasons to read really good books, as we strive to write our own :-)
Barbara, thank you for your beautiful reflection on why we write. And I loved the snapshot of the story you wrote as a kid. How fun! I’ve been making up stories from the time I remember, although I didn’t write them down (paper and pencils were rationed due to the expense). But in the margins of my notebooks, I’d doodle, also on the walls. I was punished for all these scribblings but I persisted. Oh, how wonderful it is to be a grownup. I revel in having the freedom to write–I use my kids’ half-used notebooks (that Depression era mentality, not wanting to waste anything) and new ones too (I splurge on hardcovered spiral notebooks and colored pens). Writing isn’t just something I do, it’s who I am, because I know more clearly what I think when I write. If I’m confused, writing/praying is the way out of it and into clarity and peace. I write to understand the world around me and because it is driven by love, it necessarily has to flow out. I want to share, to connect, to give. So in the end, it’s really about leaving a legacy, being a witness, to share what God has done in my life. I’m still a teenager in my faith, and often rebellious, but I’m discovering how sweet it is to surrender, to let Him write my story. Amy Tan said (and I’m paraphrasing) that writing is a gift you give to yourself first and then to others. I love that you feel it too. Thank you for writing.
Thanks for your lovely comment, Vijaya! And for adding another aspect to the “reasons we write:” to bear witness. I am reminded of the wise advice to writers from the poet Mary Oliver. Our job, she says is to: Pay Attention. Be Astonished. Tell About it.”
Wonderful post, Barbara! When I encounter newbie writers looking for advice, I always tell them a version of this: “Write for you, because there is no other way you want to spend your time. Life is too short to be doing anything you don’t love.”
Hugs,
Dee
Just so! If I ever stop loving it, I will stop writing! Like many of us, I don’t love the promoting and publishing part—but the writing part is one of the very best ways I know to spend my short time here on earth :-)
Why do I write?
Because the story that came to me 23 years ago is still pulling me to my desk every day.
Getting there – I’m working on the final volume of a mainstream trilogy, with the first two already published – and I can’t wait to finally write the end.
All three: Writing is the only thing left I can do. It has become a huge learning experience to do it right. And it WILL be my legacy. I am content.
I love that you are so clear that you are a “legacy writer!” And I also hear, in your comment, that writing has brought you great personal satisfaction, which is awesome. Truly, a two-way gift!
This is such an intriguing subject, and I really like the way you’ve explored it. For myself, I’d say all three categories fit my “why.”
You say no one told you “I write because I want to sell a lot of books, see my name on a The New York Times list, win awards, get five-star reviews, get hundreds of loves on my social media posts,” and I’m sure that for most writers, that’s so. But just to round out the view, I can attest to meeting several such writers over the years, two of whom are now longtime blockbuster successes. For one of them, the ability to write compelling stories was developed solely as a tool with which to gain “fame and fortune.” For the other, it’s that plus legacy.
I’m not judging them. Everyone has their own vision and path. The wonder of storytelling is, for me, that it happens at all. No other creature on the planet appears to do it. I find that fascinating.
Thank you for weighing in, Therese! I’m sure you are right that there are, indeed, people who approach writing from a pragmatic, financial aim, and I agree 100% that people get to do what works for them, as long as no one is harmed along the way. There’s nothing better or worse about someone who studies the publishing landscape and figures out how and what to write that will earn the most money.
As a former researcher, I know that the data one collects is shaped by who you ask and how you frame the question. I used to assign an article to my research students entitled “What We Didn’t Learn from the People We Didn’t Ask.” And hmmm … I wonder if dolphins and chimps tell stories to their kids? It’s just that we can’t understand them!
I’ve tried to answer that questions may times, and all I can think of is: I’ve always loved words, going back to the first one i learned to spell — cat. I could and did spend hours lost in a thesaurus; so many words, and each with a different shade of meaning, like “dove gray” versus “pearl gray,” “strident” versus “vociferous.” It was like a painter’s palette: I could create a whole world through words. I guess subconsciously I was hoping someone else would read and like my writing, but the thrill of inventing something of my very own was just so . . . way . . . cool.
Such a great topic! I’ve always thought stories and sharing them were important. I mean, humans had traditions told through stories for centuries.
Beautiful words. Writing is a journey of self-discovery in many ways. It’s incredible to think you can give a voice and shape to people, places and concepts – real or fiction – by stringing words together in sentences. To communicate a message that has your soul’s imprint to a stranger out there who will feel a connection with it. How abstract the notion of unburdening your thoughts in ink. Our written words will long outlive us. What stunning mysteries we contain. Or, as Walt Whitman said: “I contain multitudes”.