At some point in every writing career, an author is asked, “Why do you write?” It’s a common ice-breaker that is meant to provide basic insights into motivation. The answers are also very common, usually some form of artistic compulsion.
For the longest time, my answer was short and humorous: “Because the movies in my head are amazing and I want my friends to see them.” And it was true. I was eager to extract a glut of stories from my head and I spent many years doing just that.
But then something changed.
After a decade of writing and publishing (27 titles over four different series), I began to notice a motivational shift. I no longer wrote from a burning desire to share my creations. I wrote solely to help me sleep at night.
This was a slow realization because publishing had me fully distracted. Every work in progress was bound to a long-term release schedule. “Title X covers are complete, ready to publish. Title Y is in the second round of edits, should be ready to publish in four months. Title Z is nearing a first draft completion, setting a nine-month publication target.”
I maintained that output for a ten years straight, which brought me to a strange milestone in my author career: a stopping point.
After publishing a story collection for Twisted Simulations, I realized that every series had come to a rest. The arcs were complete and every character had reached a destination. Could I write more? Sure. But I didn’t have to.
And that’s when I started losing sleep.
Why? Because I had no stories to ponder while drifting away. I was left to ruminate on the horrific state of the world. These days, a quick glance at the news is enough to “damage my calm,” as Jayne Cobb so aptly stated. Falling asleep was no longer a process of thinking about my characters. It was a relentless assault from a world on fire.
I tried to think about other things. I mused on events that I was looking forward to. I relived pleasant memories from recent outings. But they all carried the same sense of dread. “That was fun” was replaced with “I wonder how many times I’ll get to do that again before society collapses.” I tried to anticipate future joys, but fretted about their ruination.
Ten years ago, I was happily planning for retirement.
Today, I’m just hoping the wheels stay on the bus for long enough to avoid suicide.
After several months of horrible sleep, I realized what the problem was. I had stopped writing. More critically, I had stopped thinking about writing. I had assumed that a mental break from my craft would be rejuvenating, but it had precisely the opposite effect. I was a nervous wreck. With my characters shelved, I had no weapons to combat the howling void.
So I started talking to them again.
They told me about new lands, new friends, and new adventures. I found crazy new worlds for Max and the gang to explore. I found bizarre new aliens inside the Durangoni Space Station. I even found some fascinating new insights into the Great Onslaught. They all flooded my mind and informed my dreams. Notes were taken, scenes were written, and most importantly, sleep was back on the menu.
It’s weird to admit that I have reached a point where I need writing to maintain sanity. It has transformed from hobby to therapy. Perhaps in the future, when the flames dwindle and the world regains some objectivity, I can hit the pillow with the anticipation for things to come. But for now, writing is a crutch. It’s my walking stick though Mordor.
Will I publish these stories? Perhaps. But I haven’t thought much past the sleeping part. That said, the characters you love are alive and well. They are frolicking in my head at the moment, and assuming the world doesn’t end, they will frolic in future publications.
