!Crisis of creative existence
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rawtext.club:70/~xiu
2023-04-04
Boorloo/Perth, Western Australia
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Sometimes I think I don't want to write anymore. Seven
years ago, I wanted to write stories and publish books
and settle into a long-term creative career. But now that
I'm a little ways in, some things don't feel like they
fit. This job comes with certain practicalities that
complicate the work -- like contracts, marketing,
sensitivity readers, beta readers, public discourse.

I'm not opposed to any of these things, but they do make
me question if the feeling of reward I get at the end of
it all is worth the energy I spend on it. And if I do a
decent job of it, what difference does it really make to
anyone?

I feel the 'greater purpose' of creative work and
knowledge work are two-fold:

1. To soften the edges of the human condition, and
2. To proliferate ideas and attitudes that motivate us to
build a world that's better than before.

During the COVID heyday, my "purpose" as a writer was to
help shift the narrative towards compassion, community
and nuanced thinking. The villain is the system that
treats people like pawns or possessions. On-page
antagonists reveal at least a smidge of humanity and
struggle. Relationships are complex, emotions are
nuanced, happy endings are about hope and perseverence
rather than something to take for granted.

But honestly, what difference does it make? The industry
is full of writers who write this way, and do it way
better than I do. Heck, I read their work and love it,
and they probably feel amazing when their books finally
launch after all the hard work they put in.

I don't know if I write that well. I don't know if I feel
that amazing after crossing the finish line. It feels
nice absolutely... but does it feel nice enough?

I love writing. I love crafting words and shaping
stories. I love playing with book cover designs and
typesetting my ebooks. I love doing illustrations and
building dinky microsites for webfiction and all those
other little fun buildy constructy things.

Maybe it was a mistake to try doing any of those things
'professionally'. Not a mistake for others, but a mistake
for me. The process doesn't shine the way it used to, and
having to prepare it for public consumption --
especially the consuming public of today -- stokes a
weird kind of emptiness inside me.

And it just gets worse when I think about the
environmental impact of all this. My ebook -- and every
redundant cloud-stored copy of it -- will live in an
air-conditioned data centre until potentially the end of
time. Hooray for recyclable, somewhat-compostable
paperbacks where the carbon is already captured (maybe!),
but then shipping, production, and all of that.

I got this same feeling when I thought I wanted to paint
on canvas, or sew accessories, or crochet clothing and
toys, or make websites for a living. I follow the
aspirations to their logical end and can't help but see
myself as yet another widget factory in a world already
full of widgets. Just because some economic system
decided this is how we shall live.

Writing and creative work does bring me joy, but maybe
not the flavour of joy that's right for now. But then,
what if this is just fear talking while I'm in the midst
of testing and revision for my next book?

The point is I don't know. But I've been doing this long
enough now that I have enough experience to weigh up
against some of my ideals. Might make some time soon to
think about it properly.

There aren't many people in my life and professional
circles I can talk to about this, so thank you for
reading.