The Joy Percentage
Image courtesy of Unsplash and @thoughtcatalog
I’ve always written. As a teenager, even into my twenties, I kept a melodramatic journal and wrote bad, but heartfelt, poetry. I worked for many years in Asia, Africa and Central America, and wrote long letters and emails about the epic gecko-cockroach fight in a Vietnamese hotel room; the smell of durian on a Hong Kong street corner; the shantytowns and development projects; and an invitation to eat ‘roasted sheep without the wool’ in Khartoum.
Then a story caught me, and it tugged and tugged until I couldn’t ignore it. I wrote a bad first draft, a second that was okay, and a sixth that I’m actually proud of.
I write even though I know it’s unlikely I’ll ever earn a living from writing. In fact, between writing courses, attending conferences and a self-funded writing sabbatical, I’m deep in the writing red.
Sometimes though life gets difficult. A few years ago I developed some health issues and, at the same time, several people in my life got sick. Between working, looking after myself and my family, and supporting the people I loved, my life felt like one long To Do list. Writing, instead of being something I loved, was one more thing on the list. It became work, and I already had so much work to do.
So I decided to put the novel aside. I decided to stop writing.
And I was miserable. Miserable because I was sick, because so many people I cared for were suffering. Miserable because, although we like to say that if you write you’re a writer, sometimes even if you don’t write, you’re still a writer. Just an unhappy one.
Image courtesy of Unsplash
When I eventually brushed off my novel, I had a conversation with my partner. He’s a classical guitarist: composer, performer, and teacher. He’s built a life around music and the instrument he loves, something that makes him one of the most successful people I know. I was complaining about the problems of getting reacquainted with my novel while working full time.
“It’s okay for you,” I told him. “You love what you do.”
“Well,” he said. “I don’t love all of it.”
“What?!”
“I love composing. I like performing, but who enjoys practicing for hours every day? And while I love my students and enjoy helping them become better musicians, teaching takes a lot of time and energy. “
“But you spend much more time teaching than composing.”
“Teaching is how I earn my living, but composing is what makes my heart sing.”
“How much time do you spend on that? The thing you truly love?”
He thought a bit, “I reckon 25%. Everything else supports the 25%, so I just do it. I always work on my own music first. I have to do the rest; I don’t have to give it my best creative energy.”
Our conversation made me think. What do I love about writing?
Image courtesy of Rcoder
I love the first splurge of words. My first drafts are written with a fountain pen, and once I pick up it up, words flow from my brain, down my arm, onto the paper.
I love shaping my story, building the world and discovering the characters.
I love resolving a plot issue that I’ve been struggling with.
There are things that I’ll never enjoy: proofreading, querying (five rejections for my novel so far), marketing, and the whole business side of writing. In accepting these things need to be done, and keeping them in their proper place, I am free to love the elements that provide energy for my life. I find comfort. A safe space.
25% - more or less – is enough.
