Writing to Win: Am I Taking This All Too Seriously?
By Julie Christine Johnson | September 25, 2024 |
Late in the spring, my partner registered us for an August pétanque doubles tournament. Invented in Provence shortly before WWI, pétanque is a scrappy French bowling game played on a gravel strip with hollow steel balls that are thrown to land in the closest proximity to the cochonnet, or jack—a little wooden ball. Players of all shapes, sizes, ages, abilities, genders, political affiliations, and ice cream flavor preferences will find themselves welcome on a pétanque terrain. You should totally check it out.
In fact, it’s too bad I don’t play. I think I’d really like it.
My sweetie discovered the sport in early 2020. A collegiate baseball champion, he took to it like a duck to a pond. Pétanque, which demands keen eye-hand coordination, is perfect for his skillset. Because the game is played outdoors with no physical contact between players, the local league became a social lifeline for a community in pandemic isolation. My guy went all in, building a court in our yard and practicing every chance he got. Within months, he was winning tournaments.
I’ll often sit in on Sunday club practice after I walk the dog through the adjacent state park. I turn out for every local competition. Yet when asked to join a game, I refuse. I played a few times in those early days, but I felt clumsy and inept. I quickly realized I would, amazingly enough, have to practice if I hoped not to embarrass myself on the court. Since I didn’t possess a natural acuity, why bother? I didn’t have the time or patience to practice weaving a complicated toss through a rocky terrain or to conduct drills for that awesomely satisfying carreaux sur place—when your boule hits an opponent’s with such precise force your boule replaces theirs.
I couldn’t make the leap to doing something simply for the joy, fun, and fellowship of it.
~
My approach to writing has felt a lot like my attitude toward playing pétanque. For decades I sat on the sidelines with my dreams, thinking one day I’d like to write creatively. As a kid, I filled spiral-bound notebooks with stories penned in sloppy cursive that was nearly engraved on the page because I could hardly write fast enough to keep up with my thoughts. But by college, I’d left creative writing behind. I was never going to be good enough to write for publication, so what was the point?
It wasn’t until my early forties, when I took a chance on a writing workshop in Seattle, started a blog, and began reviewing books on Goodreads, that I rediscovered my love for writing. The simple act of showing up to the page brought me joy, comfort, and inspiration, separate from any need or desire to achieve something from my stories or posts.
Then it happened. I submitted my first short story and it was selected for an anthology. The siren song of validation was irresistible. It’s not that I began writing for publication, but now my writing had an end goal. I wanted to see my work in the world.
Within three years, I’d completed my first novel, landed an agent, a book contract, and saw more short stories through to publication. I was on fire. Another novel, another contract. And then…
I launched my first two novels in the midst of personal upheavals that lowered heavy clouds over each launch cycle. A third manuscript was met with “We love it, but we’re not sure how we’d market it,” that is publishing’s version of, “It’s not you, it’s me.” I shelved the apparently doomed story, heartbroken at the failure. It took me five and half years to write and revise a fourth novel—one that has been on submission since January.
As I sit in this holding pattern, writing has ceased to be enjoyable. I’ve stopped showing up to the page with that anticipatory craving to pick up where I’d left off, meeting my characters in their transitory journeys, untwisting plot knots to arrive at that glorious “aha” moment when everything comes together. Perhaps the goal—publication—had muddied the crystalline joy I felt in the act of creation.
~
“But I don’t play pétanque!” I wailed when informed that I’d been registered in the tournament.
“Honey, it doesn’t matter,” was his response. “It’s a friendly club competition. Let’s just have fun!” Could I just have fun? I flirted with the notion that joining my life partner in an activity he loves, amidst a warm and welcoming group of friends, might actually do me some good. This was an opportunity to usher out the ego and welcome in playfulness.
~
What if I approached my writing the same way? What if I let go of seeking external validation and returned to the roots of why I write: the joy and abiding peace it brings? There is value in sharing work with an audience. There is nothing wrong with embracing ambition. I enjoy writing for readers. I adore engaging with those readers.
But something needs to change. And that something is me.
~
It wasn’t until we arrived at the club’s playing grounds the morning of the tournament that I realized this wasn’t just a friendly locals’ showdown. International champions were pacing the club’s courts, getting the lay of the terrain. Players who’d grown up shooting boules in France, Morocco, Malaysia, where the pétanque is serious business.
There was nothing to be done but swallow my horror and be a good sport.
~
In the days before the tournament, my agent and I turned down a publishing contract. We unpacked the terms and saw them for the terrible deal they were. Earlier this spring, another publisher ghosted my agent after she worked to negotiate a better contract. I haven’t given up hope that this novel will find a home, but after all of these years, countless revisions, and near misses, I’m making peace with putting another novel in the unpublished drawer. I’m making peace with the possibility that publishing will decide it doesn’t want me, before I plant my stake in the ground that I’m done with it.
I’m slowly revising my third novel for a different market than I’d originally intended, which means a switch in genre, but it’s given me fresh perspective on my themes. I’ve got another short story coming out this fall that delves into some very dark places, but I think it’s some of the most raw and real work I’ve done. I’ve made stuttering strides with a new novel. We all know that writing is a choice. It’s a choice I am making, in fits and starts, but am I doing it with love? Am I having fun?
~
My sweetie and I came within one point of advancing to the Championship round, but we went on to sweep the Consolation Bracket, walking away with a cash prize—enough for a nice dinner out, including a bottle of Provençal rosé. Seems that in all those hours of watching pétanque matches from the sidelines, I’d picked up a few skills.
Yet easily transcending the giddiness of our unexpected good showing was the unbridled, in-the-moment-like-my-Labrador-Daisy, belly-laugh fun.
I tapped into something on that pétanque court. I am capable of doing something I love with love and for no other reason than it feels good. My challenge is to aim that openness of heart toward my writing and reconnect with my why.
Your turn! What is your writing why? What motivates you to keep going despite distractions or perceived failures? How do you create a sense of play and wonder in your work?
Julie is the author of the historical fantasy In Another Life, which was awarded the 2016 Foreword Indies Gold Prize for Book of the Year (Fantasy), and the eco-lit ode to Ireland The Crows of Beara. Her short stories and essays have appeared in several journals and anthologies, and she offers writing workshops and developmental editing services to fiction writers and memoirists. Julie hold undergraduate degrees in French and Psychology and a Master’s in International Affairs. She recently completed a work of crime fiction and is laying the groundwork for another historical fantasy, which may or may not feature Mary of Magdalene and the poet Rilke. A hiker, yogini, and wine geek, Julie makes her home on the Olympic Peninsula of northwest Washington state with four cats, seven chickens, a Labradane, and a painter.
Hey Julie — Just a quick note to let you know how much I love this essay. Yes, reconnecting with the joy that brought us to the blank page. It’s my primary focus at the moment. Here’s to the inspiration of games, loving life partners, and–last but certainly far from least–Labrador retrievers. Cheers!
This means so much to me, Vaughn. Thank you for appreciating the (shared) struggle and the joy of finding inspiration in beloved pursuits and beings!
Lovely essay, Julie. It captures such a realistic struggle for me. Thanks for sharing!
Thank you, Liz! I’m so glad these thoughts resonated with you. xoxo
Thanks for you post. I believe in my novel…I always have. After only publishing a book of short stories, I am still working toward having my novel in the hands of many readers. As Lz wrote, writing is often a struggle.
I feel that our work senses our commitment to it, like a building needs life inside it or it quietly falls into disrepair. Your belief in it is what your work needs to shine, and to resonate with others. Beth, I wish you, and your novel, a gracious journey to publication!
Julie, thanks for your generosity (and role modeling!) in sharing this piece. It’s so well-written that I’ll buy you a drink on the long-anticipated day when we meet so that you can get paid a little something for it! (Will that make it a publication credit? 🤔)
It is my firm belief that the things we think of as negatives—what doesn’t happen for us or what doesn’t work for us, that make us ask why—are more effective teachers than our gratefully unexamined successes. As a recovering(?) perfectionist who finds it painful to be a beginner at anything, I’m encountering this truth all the time while learning French on Duolingo, where learning through failure is part of their educational strategy. There, “failures” are opportunities to strengthen skills until you get it right.
If nothing else, progress gaps can challenge us to decide if writing for publication is like constantly getting pricked by poisonous thorns or a goal that will truly enhance our lives. Your decision to reconnect with the love of writing, whether that be for fun or for meaning— or ultimately, for publication—feels spot-on.
“It is my firm belief that the things we think of as negatives—what doesn’t happen for us or what doesn’t work for us, that make us ask why—are more effective teachers than our gratefully unexamined successes.” This is so true, Kathryn. I’ve learned more from my failed experiments than the ones that went smoothly. Failure made me dig harder. Same with the stories.
I love that you are learning French! Although it can be painful to be a beginner, what fun it is to learn new things. I’ve often been the oldest in any classroom: learning ballet in grad school with 12-yr-olds who’ve been at it since they were six; learning to ride a bicycle as a grown woman, wobbling, falling, and now riding around the island; writing too…I came to it later in life. But what a gift!
Kathryn, This would be such an amazing conversation at a writers’ conference. I would love to have heard something like this when I was “starting out.” And I will take you up on that drink-not so much for the alcohol (although I have a penchant for Perfect Manhattans) but for the chance to be with one of my treasured mentors. I am so grateful for your wisdom and your support! xoxo
This is a great post, Julie. Like you, I tend to approach too many of life’s joys–my writing, my recent forays into learning the guitar and woodturning–as a place where I either need to excel immediately or walk away.
I’m trying to tap back into the idea that I started writing just for me. Because putting words on the page is how I make sense of everything swirling around me. That books and words are a refuge and a strength. They’ve helped me cope with life’s hard times and give me ways to share my core values.
It’s not easy to remember all that because I’d like to make a mark on the world in some way. But, I’m also realizing that chasing external validation isn’t ever going to satisfy me. I’m trying to remember my why and be at peace with it.
This is beautiful, Ruth. I feel every word that you’ve written here; you and I are coming from very similar places.
And sheesh. I took guitar lessons several years ago. It was a group lesson for beginners, but I felt like I was the only true beginner there. I was so embarrassed by my slow progress, I completed a few lessons and slunk away, never to return. My heart is still broken at that “failure.” But I still have so much music in my soul that I yearn to express. Someday, I try again…
I believe the joy in writing (or sometimes lack of joy) shows up on the page. So I don’t force it anymore. It’s never going to be my major source of income, so I want to put the best product I can out in the world. Which sometimes means being patient with myself.
Happy writing, everyone! (ie. Be happy in the writing)
Patience with ourselves seems to be one of the hardest lessons we learn, but so important. I wish you continued joy, Wendy! Thank you for the lovely comment.
A child doesn’t go to play with a purpose, or to meet a deadline. Play for a child is simply play, following an instinct. Telling a story is an instinct, too. When I simply acknowledge and follow that inner drive, I find the play and the wonder.
You’ve distilled this down to its essence, Ada. I’m a big fan of Lisa Cron’s WIRED FOR STORY, which examines how the human brain is constructed to process stories in a most elemental, primal way. And so it is for the storyteller. I find when I step back from my work, I can see a writer who is simply aching to communicate. And her stories are how she speaks her heart.
Julie, your post resonated so much. I must admit that rejections often rob me of the joy of writing. I stop submitting and focus on the craft and the pleasure of working on a story returns. This writing life is one that has helped me grow in so many ways–in my faith, in virtues (hello patience, hello humility :) that I doubt I’d ever give it up. It’s how I make sense of the world. I keep at it because the stories keep coming and I want to share them. And I keep getting better…as our barbershop director reminds us, “It’s fun to be good!” Yeah! I love that you entered the games with your partner and hooray for walking away with a prize!
Rejections suck, Vijaya. No painting them with a rosy gloss of how much they help us grow, how it’s simply part of a creative life, how we’ve all had more nos than yeses. They just hurt. Full stop. But taken in the full context of our lives, we can put them in their place, and in perspective.
I think writing has made me a more empathetic human, more curious about others, and better able to navigate and laugh with my own flawed self. Like you, writing is how I make sense of the world. And how I learn, over and over again, how very fortunate I am to have found this way to express myself.
Thank you for the beautiful comment. Your comments are always so gracious and supportive. I love reading your words here! xoxo
Oh, I love this post SO MUCH. It reflects what I’ve been hearing from authors for quite a while now, regarding the challenges of this industry and their motivations–and is a big aspect of what inspired my upcoming book for authors, about how to navigate this complex, ever-changing business and create autonomy within it so we can have happier, more sustainable writer careers. Thanks for sharing, Julie–I’ll be passing it along in my newsletter for authors.
This makes me so happy, Tiffany! I’m so glad it resonated, and honored that you would share it with your readers.
I work in publishing (small, independent, non-profit press) and having a 360-degree view is sobering. And yet, amazing books in every category and genre are launched every day. We just have to keep going, as individual writers and as a community supporting other writers. What books and stories bring to the world is too important to do otherwise.
Great story; great post, Julie.
After my first fifty-odd rejections (I consider being ignored [no response] a rejection.) I found that I was discouraged about getting published but not about writing. I recently came across a quote that sort of captured it for me: “How will I know what I meant if I can’t see what I said?” Somewhere in there, I learned that I write because I can’t think of anything better to do.
I still have dreams of being published, and I continue to try and improve my craft and also learn about the skills required to query effectively.
And I still haven’t found anything better to do than write.
This is the rub, isn’t it, Bob. WHY NOT write, right? Why the heck not. If it brings satisfaction and a sense of purpose, that is reason enough. Some of my best writing experience were leading weekly novel-works-in-progress groups. The participating writers came with expectations of publication that ran the spectrum: some couldn’t have cared less, others were zeroed in on the goal of seeing their names in print. But once we were around that table, sharing our work, everyone was united in the goal of telling the best story possible. THAT become the joy, and it was palpable. Keep going, and keep me posted!
Thank you. Will do. We write all alone, like under a bucket or in a closet. It’s wonderful to share successes, disappointments, discoveries, frustrations, and epiphanies with a like mind–another person who understands.
Julie, thanks for reminding us that it’s all supposed to be fun. I have often wondered how many Unboxers are writing primarily because it’s fun—and satisfying when they finish something to their own liking—even if they have no plans to submit themselves to the rigors and disappointments of the publishing industry. If when young I had focused and persevered in the manner of Stephen King or, say, Michael Chrichton,* I’m pretty sure I could have formally published a book or three, but I was a lazy slob, and fell into journalism instead. And now I’m a lazy slob geezer, with even less inclination to work and be abused.
Therese, have you ever done any sort of “who are you and what’s your excuse?” questionnaire? I’ll bet there are thousands of current and former Unboxers lurking out there beyond the firelight. I’ll bet you’ve thought about it. (And of course it’s possible you did it and I missed it.) I would think this group would be a great cross-section of writers.
*Chrichton wrote four or five novels while he was in *medical school* at Harvard. He got both his MD (which he never used) and an Edgar award in 1969. That is so annoying.
Oh those overachievers! I come home from work so mentally exhausted, I just want to pet the dog, have a bath and curl up with a good book. Firing up the laptop to finish a chapter is beyond my comprehension (then again, I’m an early morning writer, so different strokes?)
I would be curious to hear from folks who write without any interest or intention in sharing with a wider audience. I really do imagine my readers and write in hopes of imparting something thematically, emotionally, that will produce a reaction, even if 9x out of 10 I’ll never know what that reaction is (or hope I don’t come across it on Goodreads ;-) .
What a great comment, Michael. I’m so very happy to hear from you!
‘folks who write without any interest or intention in sharing with a wider audience’: makes me think of Emily Dickinson. If such rich treasures can be created without a thought of writing to an audience, fulfilling their expectations, then perhaps we should take a cue from her. If writing soothes the soul, we owe it to ourselves to indulge…just for ourselves.
Lovely analogy and so well expressed! I have found that most of us in the writing community are communicators, not salesmen. Of course sales is a special type of communicating, but the focus is so different.
It is at the very base of human nature to communicate that which moves us. It brings a sense of satisfaction. But in the present day, it is not whether we write well, but how well we market what we write.
So very true, Brenda. With the advent of social media, there is an expectation that a writer develop her platform, less to sell her specific work (I think), than to sell herself/her voice. As a naturally private person who is also pretty socially awkward, this never worked well for me, so I stopped participating. Long-form engagement, like blogging or Substack newsletters, which involve actual writing, are far more my jam, But to me that’s a conversation, rather than an attempt to call attention to myself to market my work or gain followers or likes. It’s all so very complicated and fraught. Or not, if we keep focused on our why…