Why do I write?

My musings on having a hobby, being productive, privilege, self-doubt and self-worth

My hobby is writing.

Just a year ago, I was not writing regularly. I think it would be fair to say I was not writing at all. There are many reasons for this. One was not having the time, another was not having the physical energy, then there was fear of failure, judgement, self-consciousness, self-doubt which often spiralled into self-loathing that left me wondering if I really enjoy writing or did I just want to say that?

When I started to write the very words you are reading, I was forcing it a little. I stared at the walls and my phone screen for hours, walked down the road and immediately back again, all in a desperate attempt to procure that coveted light bulb over my head. After googling how to cure writer’s block and being met with results essentially telling me to get a grip and type, I began to wonder why I was so eager to create a piece of written work if I had nothing to say?

I think most of us relate to the feeling of needing to do something, to have a ‘thing’, something to call our own. All these desires must surround a larger, existential crisis of seeking purpose.

We live in a world where everyone seems to have a ‘side hustle’, or a big career plan, or even just a weekly hobby they’re known for.

If you lack this, as I once did, a lack of purpose seems to creep up on you and permeate your everyday. That is my experience anyway, and I know I speak for at least a small pool of my friends. I attached - and sadly continue to attach - so much meaning to work, or at least to some kind of productivity. I seek identity in work achievements, physical activities, random creative hobbies, even the collection of objects and clothes to build my sense of self. I have essentially described a life lived under capitalist consumerism. I don’t like it. Yet I am complicit. In ways, my goal is to commodify my passion. To make a living that involves my creative outlet of choice: writing. Who wouldn’t want to make money from doing something they would do regardless of the promise of financial stability?

But sadly this isn’t possible for many. Time is money - and most young people in the creative industries don’t have either. To hone your craft while working a full-time job, scraping the barrel of living wage, is not feasible for most young people who don’t have financially stable or ‘well-connected’ parents.

I recently read a line in Meiko Kawakaki’s Breasts and Eggs where one of the character’s discussing her love for writing mentions that it is free. The book explores what it means to be poor and the experience (particularly the female experience) of living in poverty: the book literally opens with the first chapter titled, ‘are you poor?’. The thing is though, writing is not really free… In its most stripped back, natural form, yes, if you borrow a pen and find a napkin on the floor then writing is free, but you only have to conduct a job search of ‘freelance writing jobs’ to discover that the prerequisite for such a position is owning your own laptop and having a secure internet connection. Job requirements like this shed light on the privileged, presupposed notions prevalent in creative spheres, that having a laptop, a safe space to work and access to the internet is a trivial, affordable baseline, accessible to everyone. The reality is it’s not. I’m only irked further when I see knowledge of Creative Cloud, which costs over £50 per month, listed as ‘desirable’.

I have found having and committing to a hobby relies heavily on the basis that it will also offer financial gain. In that context I feel less ‘guilt’ about ‘wasting my time’ as the hobby is like an investment. Thinking about a passion in this way, something that is supposed to be fun, enjoyed but also something that occasionally I find myself forcing myself to do, brings about complex feelings.

I love writing. It’s a labour of love. There are countless reasons for why it makes me happy. And I am fortunate to have a space to write and call my own. But sometimes I am urging myself to write - whether it be a journal entry or a (probably unsuccessful) magazine pitch, and while I do, I constantly question… why am I doing this? I’ll leave off with George Orwell’s musing on writers, that is far more eloquent than my own, “at the very bottom of their motives there lies a mystery”.