This is written on November 9, because, obviously. Instead of pouring my heart out on social media or checking articles and news, I chose to write a lot. I ended up with about 3100 words before the morning was over.
When my husband was little, he liked to draw comics. One day, his father took him aside and told him, “That’s not going to make you rich.” So he stopped and focused on studying.
Another person once told me that I could just consider my writing as a hobby. “Do it on the side,” he said. I was knee-deep in the first draft of Jaeth’s Eye and the words numbed me. How do I do this “on the side”? It’s so much work. (My answer, in later years, was to just put in twice the amount of work in a normal day. It’s why I don’t binge on Netflix or video games as much as I want to).
My parents have been more supportive of my writing, but I always felt like they were waiting for me to “make it big”, and that my writing is just one of the “many” things I could do well. Unfortunately, it is the only thing I can do well. (Actually, most days I’m sure that I stink at it, but I’m still a lot better at it than I am at the other things).
But now that I’m older, I’m starting to understand that art can’t just be set aside like that. It could be a hobby. But it could also be something more. A study. A cautionary exercise. Exploration. Escape. Catharsis.
When bad things happen around the world, I always find comfort in looking through the social media accounts of authors I respect. Their words bring a lot of comfort.
There is more truth and power in art than can be contained within the words “hobby” or “recreation”. Society wouldn’t exist without art. There is more value in the truth within fiction than we realize. And that’s a lot more important than making money or being famous from it.
Read The Agartes Epilogues, where assassinating leaders is totally an option.
