why?

Despite the title, this isn't a post of rhetorical questions.

At the moment, my writing plate is full. Angel in the Woods is in revision before I contact agents. Worlds Unseen is still selling, which means that its sequel, Burning Light, needs my attention soon! And events have kicked into gear which mean I'll be publishing Tales of the Heartily Homeschooled, a collection of humourous big family/homeschooling essays, this year.

I'm busy with many other things as well, so sometimes I have to wonder: Why do I do this?

Certainly not for the money. Yes, I'd love it if my writing (specifically my novels) could support me. I'm working toward that end. But as my financial review of the past few days has showed, self-publishing is unlikely to get me there--and traditional publishing may take a while :).

The acceptable Christian answer is something like "I'm doing it to change lives" or "I'm doing it to spread the gospel." Those sound good, and of course I'm thrilled if either of those results flow from my writing. But if those were really my sole reasons, I probably wouldn't write fiction. I'd stick to devotional writing--or at least I'd make my fiction more blatantly evangelistic.

Which brings me back to the original question: Why?

Well, why do birds sing?

Song helps them communicate, yes; it aids them in mating, yes; it serves various functions in their lives--but ultimately, why do they sing? Because it's in them to do it. Because God Himself put it there.

Ultimately, why do I write? Because it's in me to write. Because writing--writing anything--is for me an act of praise.

Will my fiction change lives? Will it spread the gospel? I hope so. I hope my writing will bring a breath of heaven into the very worldly world of publishing. But I can't really control the effect my writing has on others. All I can do is write, in praise of the God who made me.

Taerith was last through the door, with Kardas only a few paces behind him, but just before the tavern's noisy dim closed in over him, he saw a hand clap down on Kardas's shoulder and heard a voice intone, "Greetings, my lord Half-Blood."

Taerith drew his hunting knife and was back on the street in an instant. Three men stood around Kardas. They held no weapons that Taerith could see, yet their expressions were unmistakably threatening. The chief of them, a tall, stocky man with a half-shaven head and a dull wine-coloured cloak, drew his hand back from Kardas's shoulder. He glowered at Taerith with such displeasure that he almost expected him to hiss.

"Who is he?" he asked.

* * *

The Eight Chapter of my novel-in-progress,Taerith, hath been posted! Comment, all ye who enter here.

Taerith Romany Is a Beautiful Man

While waiting for Libby to finish her obsessive alterations on Lilia, I received the newest (and pretty much final) version of Taerith by another one of our author/artists, Rachel Brewer. I like it very much so I thought I'd share:

something's happening in the northern swamp

The sentence has become a paragraph, and the paragraph a scene: birth of a character with requisite new ideas festooning every line, a hunt for zoological references while "As the dawn was breaking the sambhur belled/Once, twice, and again!" repeated itself in my mind, evening spent sniffling over the unexpected sadness of my own imagination.

I do love to write :). More Taerith shall appear by the end of this week, I hope.

I hope to start posting Writing Tips again shortly. The new semester has begun and I am teaching 55 students: lots of material for Tips!

fruitful

"The earth beneath Taerith's feet sank as he crept over it, the boggy reek of the mud rising to meet the close darkness of branches that hung down from old, spindle-rooted, thick-trunked trees; dripping long strands of black leaves."

One and one-half hours.

One complete sentence.

It's either writer's block or shocking procrastination.


http://taerith-romany.blogspot.com